Him Again
by Apocalypticat
Summary: Minerva hasn't been able to heal the grief inside her and Harry and Ginny are having their first child. But what if a certain deceased returns in a way that will push Minerva to the brink? ADMM with a twist! AU as of Book 7.
1. Death, Victory And Pain

**A/N: AD/MM ahead. Don't say I didn't warn you! Although I believe Severus and Albus had an arrangement, for the purposes of this story I am defecting to the other, less optimistic camp of thought.**

**_16/03/07:_ I started this story, as you can see by the 'date published' section, back in 2005. I like to think my writing style has improved since then, and I have recently begun rewriting the first few chapters. For this reason, there may some irregularity in style and quality near the start. Hopefully you'll bear with me!****  
**

* * *

Albus Dumbledore was numb with horror.

Through a green haze a body could be seen, plunging from the Astronomy Tower, a pathetic rag-doll dressed in robes and trailing a beard. A glowing skull filled his sight, laughing a serpent. The world seemed to shrink and fade into darkness; the Death Eaters and the Dark Mark vanished. His beloved Hogwarts was gone—no, it was he who was gone, leaving everything he cared about. Grief hit him, but he did not care abou the body of an old man, nor the spirit that had vacated it; there was only the hand that had held the fatal wand—

_Severus…_

This couldn't be. It was utterly impossible; if someone had told him about it, he would have laughed out loud at the absurdity of it.

_Severus, no, you couldn't have._

There was something wrong here; it couldn't have happened.

_That wasn't you._

His soul shuddered; he recognised his own denial.

_Merlin, no…_

The closed mind. The raised wand.

_Why?_

Loathing, etched into features he had protected and cherished.

_Severus… please…_

He was sick with it, with the realisation—but no! Severus would never—

_… Don't betray me. Don't go back into the night._

A harsh cry. A green flash, the after-image burnt into his spirit.

_Severus, my child, my dark one, my eyes on the enemy—_

Eyes on him. The pain. The agony of brutal acceptance. Then another thought: Harry. Harry's face swam before him, Harry angry, Harry bereaved, Harry guilty, Harry worried, Harry laughing—

He'd told Harry repeatedly to trust Severus. Repeatedly.

_Severus turning to Harry, wand raised—the dark words cried again—_

Had his mistake cost him that much? Had his mistake cost him his life, the whole of the wizarding world… had it cost him Harry… ? What had happened? He could imagine it all too clearly; it was terrifying in its clarity—he allowed himself to think the worst, because the worst had half happened—

_Harry angry. Harry running after Severus. Severus turning around, and—_

Avada Kedavra.

His mind boiled, but there was no release, no knuckles to bury into weeping eyes, no sound that he could make that could possibly come close to expressing the guilt and terror. Something broke, and at first he wondered if it was the invisible impact of his empty body on the earth, but what had broken was an inner conviction, a truth he had held onto. Mistakes are forgivable. Yet for his mistake, he deserved the worst.

Things were spreading out now. He was dissolving on the rushing wind, moving into darkness. Ahead, he could see a bright light, shaped oddly against oblivion. He realised that it was a phoenix. Then darkness again, and pulsating warmth… was this… ?

He'd wondered, occasionally, what happened after death. Now the images painted by others before him rose up within his mind. Darkness and heat. Flames and punishment.

_Despair._

_Harry,_ he thought. _Harry, my boy._ And then he thought of someone else, and another face came to him in the vacuum. The fear of what else Severus might have done pumped through him. He'd seen grim betrayal for faithful loyalty. What if what he'd interpreted as friendly rivalry had actually been bitter enmity?

_Merlin, no._

He saw the raven hair and the green eyes. It was odd; how his two favourite people shared features.

_Minerva…_

* * *

Years of frustration. Years of fear.

Victory.

A pale boy with messy black hair and green eyes older than the rest of his face, stood tall, beside the happy redheads, the bushy-haired girl, the strange old ex-Auror, the werewolf and the pink-haired woman, and so on… A whole collection of people, expressions relieved, triumphant, shaking hands and sipping wine, oblivious to the cameras flashing and the babble of excited voices.

There he is, the Boy-Who-Lived, the Man-Who-Destroyed-Him. There he is, standing by the pretty red-haired girl, looking dazed and happy. What does he think? How does he feel? His picture, with You-Know-Who at his feet. That girl, is she with him? Oh yes, she's the girlfriend, isn't she? She's Ginny Weasley—

Who's the tall redhead nearby, with the bushy-haired girl? Oh, that's them, those are his two best friends—yes, they were with him, they were there, they helped. Orders of Merlin for the pair of them. The boy's one of the Weasleys. See the dumpy witch over there—that's the mother—how does she feel, being the mother of a hero?

What about the thin, ragged man over there? Yes, that's the werewolf—he's with the wild-haired Auror—killed Fenrir Greyback, didn't he? Couldn't get a job because of anti-werewolf legislation under Fudge's government—no, never agreed with it either, of course now he'll be in great demand—

The man with the funny eye? One of the best Aurors ever, never doubted him, of course he'd be involved. Order of the Phoenix, yes? A bit funny, but just like Mr Weasley, bit odd but odd in a good way—

The rest of the kids—they were all there, too—see the girl with the big eyes? Daughter of the man who runs the Quibbler—fine magazine, wonderful publication, that. Dumbledore's Army—the Boy-Who-Lived, he started that. Another Order of Merlin winner, the boy over there—son of Frank and Alice Long bottom—whole family brave, must run in the blood. Grinning like a maniac; of course I don't blame him, I'd smile if I was him—

Who's the old bird in the corner? Her, sitting looking like someone's died. Looks ill, doesn't she? Oh, she was part of the Order of the Phoenix, can't understand why she wouldn't be—Headmistress of Hogwarts, yes, fine school, brilliant education here, look at all these brave youngsters they've turned out—Professor McGonagall, that's her. Wasted something frightful, hasn't she? Must be the stress, running a school during a war—

Look, they're all here, the whole Order of the Phoenix—started by Dumbledore, wasn't it? Died last year, didn't he, poor chap, never disagreed with a word he said, splendid man, mentor of the Boy-Who-Lived, y'know, should've been Minister…

Minerva McGonagall got to her feet with difficulty, leaning heavily on her walking stick. The hypocrisy of it all, the fact that the person who most deserved all this was absent and would remain absent—it was all getting to her. Ignoring the stares, she left the Great Hall, climbing up the nearest staircase blindly. She had a sudden urge to go up to the Astronomy tower and throw herself off.

* * *

She sat, frozen, quill suspended over the thick parchment, eyes fixed on a point in time—in a happier past. Her thinking had stalled, like it did so often, these days. She had failed again. Anybody watching would know by the tense rigidity of her posture, the way she'd paled slightly. The realisation of this made her blink and attempt to surface.

It had been seven years. Seven years, for Merlin's sake! Six, since the turmoil had ended, and everybody, save her, had celebrated the long-awaited peace—peace which He'd never been able to enjoy. Six wonderful years, she thought. Six wonderful years that she should be grateful for. If she thought them wonderful, then perhaps she could convince herself that they were.

Seven years was more than enough for a person to pull themselves together.

She remembered the quill and attempted to focus on the letter to the school governors. Incorrigible men, they were; it was quite tedious writing to them. She searched for words—and realised that her quill was not scratching on the parchment, meaning that other sounds were reaching her.

His office was almost silent. She could not think of it as hers. There was the quiet ticking of the clock, the whisper of the wind outside the window… and that gentle snoring, that awful snoring from the wall behind her. The pressure to turn around was familiar but she suppressed the desire; it never did her any good when she looked.  
She tried to block it out. She had spent the last seven years trying to do so, and she'd never yet succeeded. The snoring was very much like the memory of Him: constant, irrepressible, upsetting. It was the one final cruelty which had been done to her.

Once, she'd taken the picture down and stowed it in a corner, in a feeble effort to quieten the snoring. The guilt and agony of it had weighed her, so she'd put it back up again a mere couple of days later. The worst thing in the world would be to do an injustice to His memory in His office, whilst sitting in His chair with His job, with the residue of Him all around her.

He would stroll into her mind at the worst moments, either when memory was at its most vivid or when the Headmistress was engaged in other tasks externally more important than remembering. There was always the thought of the Mistake and the words she had failed to say to Him.

He was always strolling in and out of her mind, too. There was always the thought of Him, and His mistake, and what He'd done, and what she'd never told Him. Too much thinking of Him would result in an agitation of the hands, and tears, so she tried to direct her thoughts away, onto other subjects. Naming Him would be the worst error to make.

That snoring. She wanted to scream!

In the time after He'd gone, she'd waited, grief held at bay by the idea of speaking to Him, of telling Him… But her last comfort had been snatched away from her; snoring was all that was left…

There was a knock on the door.

The Headmistress came back to herself and put down her quill, grateful for the interruption. She could be Professor McGonagall again.

"Come in," she said.

Filius Flitwick opened the door nervously. His eyes found the thin, sharp woman at the desk instantly. The corners of the woman's mouth turned upwards slightly.

"Filius! What can I do for you?"

The small wizard walked into the room, clutching the papers to his chest. If a student had been present, they would have seen a different Flitwick to the one that taught them. Professor Flitwick was cheerful and exuberant and excitable; the Filius that entered the Headmistress's office was far more subdued. Nobody liked seeing the ruins of Minerva.

Seeing her sitting there, dull green eyes circled with weary darkness and black hair shot liberally with grey, Filius felt a distinct pang. He always felt miserable and confused whenever he entered this room. But he'd never been a close friend of Minerva's, and if neither Rolanda nor Poppy had solved the mystery, then he certainly would never know.

"Well, I'm a little confused by the new syllabus outlines for the sixth years," he said timidly, holding out the papers.

Minerva—or the ruins of Minerva—sighed. "You are not the only one, Filius. I was thinking that it could be sorted out in tonight's meeting. Both Pomona and Rolanda have already been to see me, just as confused by the school board's inability to write in plain English."

Filius nodded. Another time, he would have laughed. Still, he had some hope; he had news that should put a genuine smile on the witch's face. "Minerva, I have some good news!" he squeaked. "It was in the paper—Mrs Potter's having her baby!"

Minerva sat up, and for a moment, her wan face was transfigured with sudden joy. "That's wonderful, Filius! Harry must be pleased."

Filius nodded happily, but as he left the office, he saw her smile fade. A distant, painful look had come into her eyes. He went down the stairs feeling disappointed and wrong-footed—if the news that one of her old cubs was having a baby wasn't enough to cheer Minerva up, then what could?

Minerva found herself surrounded by the silence again. Her thin fingers twisted around the quill. In another world—in a world that was more perfect, perhaps—she would have been present at the birth. She could have cradled the soft pink form and been truly happy. Yet there was no such thing as a perfect world. After it had happened—that event which had destroyed Minerva McGonagall and replaced her with a biddable husk—she had known enough not to inflict her presence on others. The War had left the world in dire need of cheer and light—and she was neither, not anymore. Her brooding company and her inability to smile properly was hardly uplifting to either colleagues or friends. Her lips twisted. The staff was worried about her—had been ever since they had first noticed the change. Only now were they beginning to accept that it wasn't possible to change her back.

So she had drawn back from it all—even from poor Harry, as he had flailed around searching for a point of dependence and stability. Poor Harry, who wanted and needed another—another Him. She sighed when she realised the direction her thoughts were taking her.

Him again.


	2. Harry's Son

**A/N: Thank you reviewers! **

**Deannanic63 - **Thanks! **Saiyanwizardgurl - **Thanks as well! I think everyone feels the loss of Dumbledore. Damn that typo!

**Sweet as lemoz - Jasmyn - **Thanks a lot! Hope you enjoy it! **AlesiaG - **Thanks very much! And no, she hasn't - poor Min!

**Mmcgonagall - **Thanks! I intend to!

**Enjoy... hopefully!**

**REWRITTEN! **

* * *

Darkness and warmth were all around him. He was compacted into a small space, squeezed, half-choked, unable to move. An indefinite time had passed, in which the writhing darkness had done nothing but wetly embrace him to an invisible chest. Hell? There was no way of knowing, and all stereotypical ideas were inadequate; the warmth around him was soothing if mysterious. Whilst not pleasant, it was not wholly terrible either. There was only the sense of endless compression, and the beat of something too distant to be concerned about… Severus.

His mind shied away from it: from his death, from the betrayal. What did it matter, where he was now, when what had been still seared him? The darkness about seemed to thrash with his thoughts. A sudden image came, of Severus across his office desk, the form of his face distorted with the effort of keeping the misery in, the hollows of his eyes taut and grey. He had been such a sullen, unhappy boy…  
The unseen writhing around him increased in its violence. The compression grew so that for one moment he did not have to think of anything—perhaps the memories would be squeezed from him—

Yet he did not want that; he did not want to forget the good with the bad. _Hogwarts. Harry. Minerva—_

Surprise, and then the dark walls closed in—

He was being forced through a tunnel, shooting away into nothingness—

Light.

He was being overwhelmed with sensation, bared to colour and sound and air—

Albus's eyes stung as he struggled to adjust to the difference, besieged by light. A searing pain flared in his chest cavity; he realised he had taken a deep, gasping breath as though he had surfaced from water, but that was impossible; to be dead was to be breathless. A kaleidoscope of colours danced in his vision—peach, red, white, blue… His eardrums throbbed; noise crashed all around him, echoing and rebounding. This was it, this was the conclusion—

The afterlife? He imagined it to be nebulous and spiritual, but he was wrong; it was physical, painfully physical—

His eyes came into focus—and the vague blur of red and peach he could see sprang into clarity. It was then that Albus Dumbledore received what was quite possibly the greatest shock he'd ever had in his life—or death.

He had only occasionally contemplated an afterlife. He hadn't been able to come up with any clear idea of its nature, though his conviction that nothing ended at death eliminated any possible fear of it. His mind had surged towards Heaven and Hell only because they were generic, widely known ideas. The afterlife had always been a rather abstract, fuzzy concept. He had imagined, perhaps, that his life would be reviewed before any final destination.

He had not imagined an older-looking Ginny Weasley exposing one of her breasts to him.

In complete disbelief, he gaped at the woman above him in shock. Ginny Weasley. It was undoubtedly Ginny Weasley—she didn't look all that different—but certainly older and—and with one of her breasts—

Mortified, he shut his eyes. He had always liked to think of himself as a moral man—how could any kind of life review feature Ginny Weasley…? But no… this was proof! He was dreaming. This whole thing had been some sort of extended nightmare. How utterly ridiculous it was to think of Severus betraying him and himself being killed just when Harry needed him most—what a delusional idea! He was in bed, asleep at this very moment —and now he realised that he was dreaming, he could wake up—and be overly formal around the youngest Weasley for a brief period—but that was easily explained by Freud. Freud's writings about dreams could explain everything. The mixture of sherbet lemons and cheese before Harry's arrival had perhaps been unwise, and he would take care not to repeat the mistake. Reality would soon be reasserted.

His thoughts were accelerating in hope and desperation. It was just a nightmare—nothing real at all—he would wake up and go downstairs to breakfast, and joke with Minerva about how moody Severus was, and then speak to Harry about something or other—about the Horcrux, yes about the Horcrux undoubtedly—and Hagrid would say something about chimaeras being completely harmless and ask whether he could breed them at school—which he would say no to, of course—and then he had to go and see Rufus Scrimgeour about the…

He opened his eyes, to see his hand flailing above him, as if it had nothing to do with him at all. It was small and pink, and clenched tightly into a fist.

* * *

Harry Potter took five long strides forwards, stopped, turned around and then took another five. He halted, about-turned and walked, before repeating the process. His legs were beginning to ache and his feet were growing numb, but to be still was impossible; pacing was the only way to combat the fear prickling at his stomach. His hands were clasped together behind his back, so that he could feel how clammy he had become. Ron was smiling encouragingly at him from the nearby sofa, but he was more annoyed by his friend's serenity than buoyed up, and ignored him.

"Harry," Ron said at last, after ten more minutes of frantic activity had passed. "She'll be okay."

Harry stopped and stared at him. Ron stared back, grinning.

Ron's long body was draped over the sofa in a careless manner, having flopped down into it and not moved since. The sumptuous red and gold outer robes he wore were spread down onto the floor, revealing the garish orange he wore underneath. Looking at it, Harry winced inwardly. Ron, Keeper for the now legendary Chudley Cannons, had literally walked straight off the pitch mid-game, right past his adoring fans, simply to sit and watch Harry pace a hole in the carpet. At exactly the time when Ron should have been saving the Quaffle, signing Chocolate Frog Cards of himself and laughing with his team-mates, here he was—

"Harry," Ron groaned. "Don't beat yourself up. If you hadn't told me, you know I would've killed you." He gave his friend a look of mock severity under his brows.

The bespectacled man's eyes looked at him uncomprehendingly before seeming to look beyond him, to see something else. The unexpected popped out.

"I wish we'd had one earlier. Ginny wanted to, y'know. But I guess I needed time to …" Harry's voice drifted off and the distant look in his eyes grew.

Ron shifted uneasily, caught by surprise. The sentence was finished by the silence that stretched between them: to live without the threat of death. To recover from all that had happened. Harry could see Ron's thoughts being played out across his face—there was that slight tightening of the lips that meant that Ron was thinking of the Second War, and that troubled look in his blue eyes that indicated that his friend was thinking of a time about a year after…

Harry had not thought about the Second War for quite a long time. It was inevitable that occasionally his mind would go back to it—whenever someone said, "When I was at Hogwarts…" Yet he always focussed on the enjoyable memories—those that were not evoked by the mention of a war of any kind. _Eating lunch with Ron and Hermione. Making cushions fly in Charms. Playing Quidditch._ It was at that point that he usually stopped thinking about Hogwarts—otherwise the memories would begin to descend into those with undeniably painful undercurrents._ Moaning in Potions about Snape. Meeting Sirius for the first time. Talking with Dumbledore._ If he remembered any more intensely… _Sirius falling through an archway. Snape's face twisted in hate. Dumbledore's body falling from the tower._ Memories that were scenes from a nightmare—and that didn't even count the final battle...

A year after it had all ended—that was when he'd finally broken down. That in itself was senseless; it was as if the experience and the knowledge of it was staggered, with the reaction so late that it was irrelevant. Immediately afterwards he had merely felt numb, and completely disconnected from the dispassionate young face below the headline of the _Daily Prophet._ What did it matter that the photo had become famous, or that the wand was aimed at the body of You-Know-Who? Nothing at all. He had had nightmares of that face. If he tried to remember standing there, doing the deed, his mind blanked—he could only recall the crushing revelation that it was over, and that he had killed someone. The nightmare surrounded him, enclosed him with paper. _Harry Potter, Harry Potter, Harry Potter._ He had become sick of his name, sick of remembering, sick of thinking. What thoughts he had were disconnected. Two years had passed in which nothing was more than a snapshot or a haze of impressions: Ginny's worried face as he sank away from her, the daubed mouth of a reporter flapping out of time with the words he heard. He had needed Sirius and Dumbledore, and neither were there because of a man he'd failed to avenge their deaths upon.

That was the worst thought. Even now, long after he had recovered and withdrawn from the public eye, the fact that somewhere, a traitor to rival Pettigrew was still eating, drinking and breathing was enough to send a thrill of anger through him. Snape! Oh how he'd feverishly hunted… but Ron and Hermione had put a stop to that—and although he'd been angry at the time, it had saved him. They had brought him back, into a world where his wife stared hungrily at little children.

She had burst into tears at a restaurant, because there had been a baby at the next table. He had still been blind from his inner death, but that was when he had first noticed the new tension in her, the new element of suppressed desire.

_ "A child?"_

The brown eyes had welled. He had come back to being Harry, and Harry wanted a child too.

That thought brought him back to the present. His heart thumped. His child! Somewhere in the same building, his son was being born. He wanted to be with Ginny, needed to be with Ginny… He resumed pacing.

"Harry," Ron said softly. Harry ignored him, throat tight.

"Merlin, I wish I was in there with her."

"She'll be all right, mate. She's as tough as—"

"Ron, they said the baby was getting 'stressed.' What does that mean?"

"Well," came Fred's voice suddenly. "I imagine being born would be a pretty stressful experience."

Harry spun around.

The twins were moving calmly across the room towards them, every step resulting in a slight clink that he strongly suspected was that of a purse bulging with Galleons. Both were clad in green dragon leather and dripped with medallions and other accessories. He wondered if they knew it was tasteless, and if they did it deliberately.

"Don't you worry about our Ginny," George assured him.

"After being on the wrong end of her wand a few times, you soon cease worrying about her—"

"—It's more a question of worrying for the people who meet her—"

"—Believe me, Harry; me and George were terrified for you at the wedding—"

"—Still, we always knew you were pretty thick."

Harry grinned weakly at them, but he was too anxious to laugh. He opened his mouth to ask where the rest of the Weasleys were when the door at the opposite end of the waiting room was flung open with such force that it ricocheted off the wall, to nearly slam back into the frantic face of Hermione Granger. Hermione barely paused at this, however, and rushed into the room looking agonised.

"Harry!" she panted. "Is it—she hasn't—has she?"

Harry shook his head. Hermione slumped into a chair.

"I'm sorry," she gasped. "I was in the middle of a campaign meeting."

Harry opened his mouth to ask which campaign that had been, to think better of it and shut his mouth again. By now, Hermione had been involved in so many campaigns, it was hard to keep track. Every time Harry opened the paper, Hermione was usually featured somewhere—either in a photo where she waved her arms and shouted at some hapless bureaucrat, or as the author of an article that raged against obscure Ministry policies. She campaigned for House Elves, giants, werewolves, Muggles… Anybody whom Hermione deemed oppressed found their cause championed. Ron was often forced into playing a Quidditch match wearing a badge proclaiming his apparent support of S.P.E.W, or G.R.A (Giant Rights Association: "bigger scale, bigger hearts") or S.P.A.W.L. (Society for the Prevention of Anti-Werewolf Legislation: "the Howling Shame of the Ministry") or any other society his wife headed. Being Ron, Harry reckoned, must be a precarious existence.

Hermione leaned forward and directed a raised eyebrow at Harry. He shook his head and turned to continue pacing—  
A Healer emerged from the double-doors. As soon as he entered, all three friends leapt to their feet and the twins gave him unconvincing looks of unconcern.

The Healer, a young man with a blonde thatch of hair, stopped, aware that he was mere feet away from some of the most famous people who had ever lived. There they were: Ron Weasley, Champion Quidditch player for the top-of-the-league Chudley Cannons, Hermione Granger, Deputy Head of the Department of Mysteries and President of so many organisations, Fred and George Weasley, founders of the wildly successful Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes, and last of all, the pale man dressed in jet black—the youngest Chief Auror in three centuries and the Man-Who-Destroyed-The-Dark-Lord, Harry Potter. He had to suppress the urge to ask for autographs.

"Come this way," he said shortly.

Harry strode after the shorter wizard, heedless to all else. The inside of his mouth felt like it was coated with sandpaper. As they walked down the long corridor beyond the doors, he strained for the sound of a child crying. Yet there was just silence. Harry broke into a trot—the ward was in sight…

The door opened. For a moment, all that could be seen was white—the chalk-brightness of the walls, the scintillating dance of light over a tray of surgical instruments, the blaze of the sun outside. Then all eyes adjusted, and found a flushed Ginny Weasley propped up against a pillow, eyes pooling and face lined with exhaustion. Harry froze, but then spotted the smile. She was more beautiful than he had ever seen her, radiant, glowing, exuding maternal waves.

The Healer stood back politely, and watched as all of the celebrities bounded over towards the bed, the Chief Auror in the lead. He saw the wife and mother, Ginny Weasley, an Auror in her own right, direct an expression of pride at the father, whilst her eyes remained fixed on something another Healer was dealing with in a basin across the room. He saw the tall, thin man's green eyes widen and follow her gaze…

Harry was mute with wonder. Something small and pink and vulnerable was being washed gently in a basin—something that was his and Ginny's, something they had created together. Their son.

"Mr Potter, sir?" said the Healer timidly as the baby was swaddled in a blanket. "There are a few things…"

* * *

Albus could not understand what was happening. The pink flailing hand had continued to reach into nothingness, as remote from his control as the sun or the forces of physics. A burst of concentration would send it flying convulsively, with no precision or any semblance of aim. His alarm grew with the revelation of his own, suddenly crippling weakness—his magic was buried, and reduced to spark: he had gone from being one of the most powerful wizards in the world to nothing, less than the most Squib-like eleven-year-old. Moreover his body was small—small enough for gentle hands to pick him up, to life him with ease… _Impossible._

Faces swam above him as water sluiced down his new form. Voices were murmuring, cooing, clucking. He was being wrapped in something soft and arm, so that the unruly hand disappeared, bound against his side. Arms took him back to Ginny, and he looked up to see another unexpected face: that of Ronald Weasley… Albus stared at the long, freckled nose in utter bewilderment. What had happened? The afterlife seemed nothing more than Weasleyland, and any other time he would have found the idea amusing, and said something to the effect that that was no great punishment… The voices became clearer and louder.

"…No, no—I don't mean to say that there's anything _obviously_ wrong, sir. He may be perfectly all right—but generally speaking, when they don't cry, it's a bad sign. And he's a wee bit underweight…"

"Blimey!" Ron's lips flapped distantly. "So that's it! I _thought_ it was a bit odd. I've always thought babies screamed their heads off."

"He's so sweet," Ginny said softly, looking down at him with an expression he couldn't remember anyone giving him since he'd been about five. "Aren't you? Look at those beautiful blue eyes…"

Albus felt himself go cold. His mind was nudging towards something…

Harry wanted to touch his son, needed to hold him. The sight of the small body had sent an array of images floating through his head: himself with a small boy on a bike, himself watching a tousled head bow on a moving swing, himself standing in Ollivander's shop, watching his son wave a wand. His son. He beamed, and moved so that the baby could see him, heart distended. The child was suddenly in his arms, nestled against his robes, large eyes demanding protection, mouth a peaceful red smudge. He smiled, and tried to crush the worry at the lack of sound emanating from the new-born lungs. Somehow the silence was more terrifying than the idea of any amount of screaming. He grinned more widely—no amount of worry could suppress the joy welling up inside him.

"Hello," he whispered, looking deeply in the vast blue eyes. "Hello. I'm Harry. I'm your daddy."

The sapphire irises shimmered. Tears finally began streaming down the infant cheeks.

The Healers stopped busying themselves with their instruments and stared. Fred and George's grins faded. Ron took a step backwards and Hermione's hands went to her mouth. The blood in Ginny's cheeks fled. Her husband clasped the child more firmly, face carefully devoid of expression but the green eyes disturbed. Nobody spoke, and there was no sound but that of faint whimpers and the choking out of sorrow. The baby continued sobbing—sobbing in a way that neither of the Healers had ever heard before from a child—sobbing in the hopeless, shaking anguish of someone far older, and whose spirit was not new-born.

**A/N: There you are, here's the twist! Drowning in irony. Him Again.**


	3. He's Gone

**Emutet, Aelitagurl, sweet as lemonz, saiyanwizardgurl, EM, Midnight'sGone, hermionebabe06 and Thoroughly Modern Philly - **A BIG thank you for your reviews! Glad everyone seems to like the twist. Philly, I've been reading your stories on Minerva—and they rock my socks!

**REWRITTEN!**

* * *

Harry's arms acted as an anchor. There was something about the insistent beating of the heart in the warm chest that steadied Albus. He was still reeling, his barely controlled tears having only just ceased, but here at last was some sort of familiarity in amongst the chaos. He could remember a time in which he had held Harry in his arms and looked down to see the newly cut scar. There was the distant idea that once the shock had subside, he would be able to appreciate the irony of being the one who was held.

Only five minutes had passed since he had stopped being passed around to various Weasley family members and cooed at by Hermione. The looming faces, expressions wavering between joy and anxiety, seemed like a vision taken from another reality. _Impossible, impossible, impossible. _How could this be? How could this be? Seeing that small pink hand that was somehow attached to him…Time had reversed and accelerated at the same time. A baby Albus held by an adult Harry.

Harry!

His soul shuddered with relief. Harry. Alive. Older. Married. All those things he'd feared that Harry would fail to be. There was his face, up above him. It was a strong, worn face, the eyes piercing and intelligent, surrounded by a mane of black hair—

_ I'm Harry. I'm your daddy._

The words sounded inside his brain. He stared up at Harry, mind stalling again with the shock. Daddy? Was that true? Was he really…? Had he really been reborn as… ?

_ Reborn._ An explanation that was no explanation at all. Reincarnation was not an idea he had disputed; the intellectual concept was not surprising, especially when Fawkes would regularly demonstrate it right in front of him. The theory of its application to human beings was plausible. Yet there was a definite difference between sitting in his office and finding something plausible and actually experiencing it, especially when it was as the son of one of his own students. Surely he wasn't supposed to remember…?

A mental Fudge suddenly intruded, shouting at a pointless Ministry meeting. _"Get to the point!"_

A criticism that could well be applied to Fudge himself, but the memory jolted him. Something had to be done. He would speak to Harry, and then some sort of plan of action could be made, though he had no idea what… He opened his mouth.

"Harry."

Or, at least, that was what he'd intended to say. What came out was:

"Haoorrrr."

Albus felt himself blinking in mild surprise and indignation. That strange, high-pitched gurgle couldn't possibly be him, could it? He scrutinised Harry's face hopefully, but the man merely grinned and brushed one of Albus's cheeks lightly with a finger. The contact made him lose track of his thoughts—it was amazing, how sensitive his face was to that one touch! So gentle, so soft… Looking up he saw the protective glint in Harry's eyes—and he felt odd; nobody had looked at him like that for over a century. Everything was so strange; he was the one who protected, not the one who _was_ protected.

That thought gave him an odd, guiltily pleasurable feeling. His responsibilities had all fallen away from him. Right now, he was a helpless child, utterly dependent on others to be responsible. And yet…

He should be dead. The curse had undoubtedly killed him; it made absolutely no sense for him to be alive now. Harry had grown up and moved on. He certainly did not want his former headmaster for a son. Albus was intruding on a future he had no right to be in. It was a sombre concept, and he realised that he just _had_ to inform Harry of this, so that…

So that what? If he did somehow manage to get the idea across to Harry, what then? What could possibly be done? There was no known spell or incantation, no discovered potion that could rectify the problem. The problem itself was unprecedented, indescribable in the terms of magic. The closest definition of what had happened was some sort of a transfiguration, and over sixty years of expertise in the area yielded nothing to him; there was no obscure account in a banned book or a vague reference in an encyclopaedia. What would be the result of such a situation? Poor Harry and Ginny would have lost the chance of having an ordinary son and nothing could be done about it. Albus closed his eyes as another revelation hit him.

He was too old, too tired, too ancient to his soul. There was no desire to go through life all over again—especially not when this extra span on Earth that had, for some reason, been given to him, would undoubtedly mean seeing the decline of his young Gryffindors and the deaths of his friends and colleagues. Painfully, his mind turned to Minerva—and then he forced it away again; that particular concept was too much to be thought upon right now. He had been terrified enough—during the Second War—at the idea of Harry being cut down in his teens by some cruel twist of fate. In a perfect world, he could have been certain of Harry outliving him—but events had seemingly conspired to make this happy event ever more unlikely. Weariness gripped him.

What was left to achieve, and how many battles were there to fight? He had watched the rise of three Dark Lords, had seen four wars sweep the blood of young men into the ground, had founded the Order as the lone survivor of his school contemporaries. He was no cynic or fatalist; life was enjoyable—but he had met Voldemort as a man in patient contemplation of the coming long rest. The world was for the rise of the new, not the stretched continuance of the old.

_ Harry, my boy. It's me._

He tried to imagine Harry's reaction. His mind blanked; it was impossible.

"Harry. It's me, Albus Dumbledore," he tried again.

"Haaoorr. Iieee, aaahhbuu duuuddd."

"That baby doesn't half gurgle funny," he heard Ron's voice say.

"Better gurgling than screaming," said Ginny, wisely.

* * *

Minerva kicked the duvet round and turned over yet again. Above her, the darkness of the four-poster hangings served as a background for her thoughts, which were busy chasing each other in circles. Trying to lie still and not seek a warmth that had long left that bed, she forced herself to go over the meeting with the school governors for the twentieth time. She concentrated on the rise and fall of one governor's voice as he questioned her about the cost of various extra-curricular activities inside Hogwarts. She remembered how one, a droopy-looking woman with soulful eyes, had pressed a cup of tea into her hand as if she couldn't possibly survive without it. She deliberately recalled the feel of the cup in her hands, and how the warmth of the liquid inside radiated outwards into her bones.

Night, Minerva knew, was a dangerous time. The mind was prone to chewing over things. Whilst attempting to sleep, the brain worried at itself, pulling up memories. Night time was Minerva's least favourite time of day—perhaps because it wasn't day.

The bed didn't help. She had tried, after getting the position of Headmistress, to remain in her old rooms and force the new Transfiguration teacher to sleep in the Head's rooms, but she had gotten such odd looks and questions which could not be coherently answered that she had given up. She still hadn't got over the feeling of being in someone else's bed.

Yes, she thought, that was what made her toss and turn. Simple displacement of habit. Her Animagus was a cat—a creature of habit—so of course it would take longer than usual to get used to new 'territory.' That was it. There were no extra dimensions to it at all.

Going over the day's events tended to help. If she could keep on concentrating until she dropped off, then hopefully there wouldn't be any… unwelcome thoughts. Self discipline was the key.

_ Quidditch does indeed consume a lot of resources,_ she recalled admitting to the governors. She focussed on the way one of the governors kept on fiddling with the skin in between his fingers. _But it encourages the spirit of friendly competition in amongst the students._ Even now, the angry bubbling of self-righteous indignation settled in her chest. What kind of idiot would even consider halting Quidditch matches?

_ Indeed,_ came the governor's languid voice in her head. _And the clubs?_

_ Gobstones, chess,_ her inner voice began to echo. _And other clubs related to specific subjects. _

_ Wasn't there another?_ came that question. That question. Oh no—but she couldn't stop herself remembering—

_ Dumbledore's Army._

Her hands clenched at her pillow as she moved to lie on her front. Coldness shot down her body. His name! She'd said—and thought—His name! Mistake.

_ An official club now?_

_ Indeed. I believe I told you so last year, Robert. Now excuse me, I have to—_

Run, she thought bitterly. Run back to her school to sit by the lake and drown in self-pity. Idiots! Why had they made her answer that question…?

"Headmistress?"

The whisper had her sitting up in bed, wand seized from the bedside table. Fumbling for her glasses, she pushed them on and looked wildly around, drawing back the curtains with desperate force.

"Begging your pardon, Headmistress—"

She caught sight of the picture of grazing deer on the wall opposite. The deer had fled to one side of the picture, the other side having been invaded by a frail-looking, elderly wizard: one Armando Dippet. She scowled at him and he quailed before her glare. "My apologies, Headmistress—I agree, this is most improper—"

"What?" she snapped, too exhausted to even pretend some semblance of politeness.

"Ah… Well, you see, my dear-"

"What?" repeated Minerva harshly. She felt an irrational anger—the phrase 'my dear' was not Armando's phrase; oh no, he was merely copying from someone else—

Dippet twiddled his thumbs nervously. "His—uh—portrait—um, it's, well, gone."

"What do you mean?" she demanded. "What portrait?"

"Dumbledore's portrait. The frame's still there but—"

Minerva was out of bed so fast that Dippet was left talking to empty space. Heart beating madly, she dashed out of the bedroom, seizing the tartan dressing gown hanging on the door as she did, and into the small hallway, hand already outstretched for the door-handle. Her mind was whirling. _Gone—gone? His picture gone? But did that—oh could that mean…? Was he awake— had he…?_

The concealed door swung open, the tapestry hiding it mercilessly torn aside. The office was darkened, but the portraits were all awake and buzzing with excitement. Bright, curious eyes watched her as she turned to face the desk—and the empty frame beyond.

On the wall hung an ornate golden frame. It was heavily patterned (though Minerva could have drawn every elegant swirl in her sleep as they were all engraved on her brain) and the words 'Albus Dumbledore' were inscribed on the bottom. Yet where a snoring figure usually sat, there was nothing. Instead, there was just the purple chair the painted Him had dozed in and the small painted window showing a view of the Forbidden Forest. The subject of the picture was conspicuously absent.

Minerva felt herself go cold again. Seeing that empty scene… It was almost as bad as the feeling she had had when she had walked into the office after His death, and seen the empty chair and cluttered desk, on which lay the last paper He'd been working at… It enforced His absence.

Then hope rose in her again. Had He finally woken up and gone for a stroll around the castle? Did that mean she could finally talk to Him…?

"What happened?" she asked, without turning round.

A cacophony of voices broke out. "Well, I woke up to see him gone—"

"Didn't see him wake up—"

"—Nobody did—"

"—And Armando went and got you as soon as we realised—"

"I say," wheezed Dippet as he arrived back in his picture. "Isn't this exciting? I do believe he's woken up and gone for a stroll—"

"I hope so," announced the fat, red-faced wizard who had once spoken to Harry. "He shall make things interesting again. I look forward to a good old chin-wag with the fellow—"

Phineas Nigellus sniffed. "Perhaps he'll bring some dignity back into the proceedings," he drawled. "I can't say we saw eye to eye when he was alive but—"

"We will have to search the castle," cut across Minerva sharply. "Armando, if you go and check the first floor and Phineas, if you take the second—"

"What?" said Dippet, blinking. "Now?"

Minerva glared at him. "Yes!"

"But, my dear, there's no rush—"

"—When I first woke up, I recall wanting some quiet time to myself—"

"—He'll be back soon; there are only a few interesting portraits worth visiting in this irritating place—"

Minerva's glare switched to Phineas. She opened her mouth to demand to know why the portraits weren't following orders when Phineas spoke again, in his lazy, sarcastic voice.

"What's the hurry, anyway? Dumbledore's obviously taken his time already—seven years. Personally, I don't think there's any excuse for staying asleep for that long—shows an appalling laziness in my opinion—"

"Well," said Minerva weakly. "He'll probably want to catch up on events—"

"Can't he be told in the morning?"

"That man's been trying our patience for seven years; he deserves to be kept waiting—"

Minerva sighed and turned away. With that, the Headmistress exited the office, lit wand held aloft. Her exhaustion had been swept away by hope. If it took all night, she would find His portrait herself and speak to Him.

* * *

Harry Potter looked down at his son nestled in Ginny's arms, now sleeping peacefully, and felt a frown crease his brow. The queue for the fireplace and Floo network was long, so it gave him time to think. The jubilation at the idea of taking his son home was lifting to reveal worrying undertones.

Not for the first, second, or even third time, Harry thought of the incident earlier that afternoon with some anxiety. The way his son had cried like that… It had been disturbing, to say the least. Still, the child had seemed perfectly all right afterwards, gurgling oddly at him whenever he held it.

"We shall have to think of a good name," Ginny said softly to him, still glowing in that warm, maternal way.

He smiled. "Yes… any ideas?"

"Sirius?" Ginny suggested tentatively. "James?"

Harry swallowed and shook his head. "Not James." That ghost had to be laid to rest. "As for Sirius—perhaps a middle name?" He didn't want to think of the Veil chamber whenever he thought of his son.

Ginny nodded and was silent. A thought came into Harry's head.

"How about… Brian?" he said hesitantly.

Ginny smiled. "Yes, that's a nice name…" She paused; he knew his face must look odd. "Harry, does that name mean something to you?"

He nodded stiffly. Blue eyes surveyed him in his memory.

"All right, then." She looked down at the baby. "Brian."

* * *

Dawn found Minerva slumped in the seat in His office, head in her hands. His snoring had been replaced by her short, gasping breaths as she swallowed back tears. Intensely grateful that all the other portraits were either absent or deeply asleep, she gazed at the polished wood below her through blurred sight. Every part of her body ached—her legs, her arms, and her back—but none more so than the livid, pulsing wound of grief inside.

Her eyes heated themselves in their sockets, the pressure building up behind them. Where?! Where was He? She had walked around the whole castle no less than five times, peering at each and every single picture, but nowhere was He was be seen.

It was like losing Him all over again.


	4. Marred Dream

**A/N: Phew! Sorry for the delay in updates, folks - sixth form suddenly got very busy.**

**Tartanlioness - Thanks! That means a lot coming from you - I've been prowling around all the AD/MM people out there and I've really loved your stuff!**

**saiyanwizardgurl - Nobody likes seeing Minerva hurt. Waaaaahhh!**

**Lady Epur - Thanks!**

**Quill of Minerva - Thanks, and the same for you as for Tartan Lioness. AD/MMers, unite!**

**Siriuslives5 - Thanks for the review! I'm glad it seems to be original, I'm always worried that I'm going to copy someone without meaning to...**

**sweet as lemonz - another AD/MMer, aren't you? Yay! And, as you said, poor Minerva. **

**girl from iceland - Thanks! I'm sorry that this isn't 'soon!' **

**Enjoy, folks. **

The Chief Auror had just reached the Atrium when the media pounced. The reporters and photographers rushed forward as the tall, dark man they had been pursuing without success for three months walked into the open space. Cameras flashed and Quick-Quote quills began to sweep their elegant ways across parchment, as voices questioned and attempted to draw out the short, curt responses given.

Harry Potter sighed in irritation. Over the years, he had become remarkably adept at avoiding the media. Immediately after Voldemort's defeat, he had been bombarded with demands for interviews and press reporters, to the extent that it had threatened his new job as an Auror - catching Death Eaters on the run was made exceedingly difficult when the flashes of photography gave away your position. He remembered Ron being pleased with the attention given to all the Second War veterans - but he'd detested it. He still did: he hated being asked meaningless questions about things which the people asking couldn't possibly understand. He hated having his life condensed into a newspaper article, with all the pain of the Second War reduced to mere statistics. Even Ron had eventually understood his relentless withdrawal from the public eye.

He remembered turning down the endless interview requests and party invitations. How on earth could he have borne going to a party where all conversation consisted of: "Harry Potter! What was it like, fighting He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named? Such bravery! Yet I suppose you were motivated by the losses you'd suffered - your parents - and your godfather, was it? How did you feel when..?" He especially hated the questions about his emotions. "How did you feel when you found out that there was a prophecy about it all? How did you feel when witnessing the death of Albus Dumbledore? How did you feel when you lost your godfather? How did you feel during the final battle?" How had he felt? How did they _think _he'd felt? But the papers didn't want that. They wanted him to say that he'd felt upset but determined, sad but confident - they wanted him to spout emotional drivel as though it wasn't real at all, so that their readers could squirm with pleasant horror. Rita Skeeter had taught him a powerful lesson.

Eventually, due to his constant refusals and curt replies, the media had lost interest. The world had moved on - in some ways. Children still pointed at him in the street - but the name 'Harry Potter' was no longer plastered over the newspapers and his eyes no longer stared from every page. It had been a welcome relief. However, the last three months, he had taken extra care to avoid the outside world as much as possible. Once that Daily Prophet reporter had found out that he'd been on paternity leave, he'd expected everything to erupt into excitement again - and now, here he was, proven right.

"Mr Harry Potter, sir - can you confirm rumours that your wife recently had a child-?"

"-Is the baby a boy or a girl-?"

"-What do you say to the allegation that the child isn't yours-?"

"-Have you avoided revealing the truth to allow your child a normal life-?"

"-How do you think your fame will affect them-?"

"-What do you want for the latest addition to your family-?"

Everywhere he looked, he could see wide smiles, revealing pristine white teeth. Quick-Quotes quills were busy describing his clothes, his hair, his expression…

"Yes," he said sharply. "Boy. Absolutely ridiculous. Indeed. Probably badly. A good life. Thank you, no comment."

"Have you named your son?" demanded one last reporter as he waded through them, making an exit.

"Brian Sirius Potter," he said brusquely, and left the Atrium.

As he returned home, he thought of the baby to have caused such a fuss. As soon as he did, his thoughts sharpened in worry. His son was three months old now, and they'd taken him to the Healers no less than five times. The last time they'd gone, the Healer had dared to tentatively voice the possibility that Brian was a bit brain-damaged. They obviously couldn't think of another way to explain the silence of the child.

Brian had never cried. Never, not in all the nights which should rightfully have been sleepless. Apart from that one disturbing episode in the hospital, he hadn't even whimpered. For a baby who, as the Healers had assured Harry multiple times, possessed a set of very healthy lungs, this was undoubtedly abnormal.

Brian's silence was not the only thing that troubled Harry. There was something else different about his son - but he couldn't put his finger on it; it was so subtle as to be unnoticeable to any outsider. There was just something in the way Brian's eyes followed his father around the room, and how he would lie still when having his nappy changed, as if he understood what was happening.

Harry gave himself a shake. Of course Brian couldn't understand - he was far too young. He was probably just imagining problems in some sort of paternal paranoia. Yes, that was it.

As the Chief Auror made his way swiftly home, his son was staring at the ceiling, thoroughly bored. A life lacking in all worry was all very well, but at least a little stress kept one occupied.

Albus had found the past three months almost insanity-inducing in their boredom. He was imprisoned in a body too weak to do anything but lie in a cot and occasionally squirm towards some uninteresting toy thrown in beside him. Apart from when Harry picked him up and talked to him, Albus had found his new life one of uninterrupted monotony. Luckily, Harry talked to him quite often - something which Albus half enjoyed and half dreaded - it gave him the same feeling as when reading the ending of a wonderful book, to find it so bittersweet and powerful that it felt as though the author was playing a melody on his heartstrings.

Harry would pick him up and pace around, speaking softly all the while. Sometimes he didn't look at Albus when doing so, but would gaze into the distance, as if he was sending his soul far away in an attempt to dim what was around him - in a way that would throw Albus back to when Harry had been his student. How many times had he seen Harry looking that way, somehow stepping beyond the material world with his mind alone? How many times had he looked over his meal to see Harry at the Gryffindor table, oblivious to all but the dreams dancing in his head? Too many times. It had pained him then and it still pained him now.

It was particularly disturbing, as it was obvious that Harry would not have wished anyone who understood the English language to be present when he spoke to himself as he did when holding Albus. Sometimes things were fine and Harry would talk about work, and what he'd done that day, and what would happen when 'Brian' was old enough to talk back to him.

"I don't know whether I'd wish the profession of an Auror on anyone," he'd said the other day. "Still, at least I don't have to deal with some ogre ordering me around. Not now _I'm _the ogre."

Other times, however, Albus wished he was a million miles around, just so as not to have to see Harry when he thought he was alone with the blissful naivety of a child. It would always start with Harry talking about Brian going to school, and how he'd one day go to Hogwarts. Then, inevitably, Harry would begin to talk about his own days at Hogwarts. That had happened only the day before.

"Hogwarts is a good school, Brian," he'd said, brilliant green eyes glazed with memory. "I had some good times there - and you will too. But…" He'd paused then and Albus's soul had stiffened with dreadful anticipation. "But… my school days were disrupted a bit, weren't they? I had a lot of fun there… but…things weren't all right. I met some people who cared about me - for the first time in my life - there. But I lost a lot of people, too. I'm lucky to be alive…" His voice drifted off.

Albus saw him look down at him, eyes still distant. "A lot of things… A lot of things I probably won't ever tell you - not properly. And what I will tell you, you probably won't understand. I'll go on about all these people who will just be names to you. And it's like World War One, Brian, with the muggles. Everybody said that they'd remember forever - but they've forgotten already. It's the same here. Everybody said - 'let all those fell for what is good and what is right be remembered forever.' But you… You and all of the generations after won't _really _remember. You'll probably hear about it in History of Magic - and you'll probably go to sleep too, just like I did with Binns and his goblin rebellions."

Albus, lying in his arms and a part of him writhing in sadness for Harry, agreed bitterly. Who now remembered the struggles and heartbreaks of a mere century ago? Who now truly remembered Grindelwald, and what sorrow he had wrought? Only a few ancient witches and wizards, whose tongues held no interest to a young world. And it would be worse for poor Harry. Nobody deserved to be a war veteran at twenty-four.

"Brian…" Harry whispered. "I wish… I wish you could meet them. All of them. You'll meet Moody, probably, and the Weasleys, and Remus, and Professor McGonagall. But you'll never meet Sirius, or the man I named you after."

Miserably, Albus tried to think of someone called Brian to whom Harry could possibly be referring. Trying to place that person was preferable to thinking about the feelings this grim conversation aroused.

"Sirius was great fun, Brian. He was like a big brother to me. A wonderful big brother. And the man I named you after was the wisest and nicest man I have ever met. I've always tried to be like him."

'Brian' would have frowned with confusion and concentration at this point, if he'd had sufficient control of his face. Harry had always been a relatively introverted and distrustful person - who on earth could he have held in such esteem as to try and emulate? Albus wracked his brains, but no sufficiently wonderful person stepped forth.

"I wish you could have met him," Harry said softly. "He was the headmaster then and he was like a grandfather to me."

Albus felt tears well up in his eyes. His heart seemed to swell and push against his ribcage. Harry - his Harry - had thought so much of him, and had called his own son after him. Had he been 'himself,' he would have blushed with embarrassment and pleasure. _Harry, my boy. You were the grandson I never had._

Right then, Albus felt like attempting to say aloud a desire that he'd long suppressed. Knowing the futility of it, however, he kept his jaw clamped, but his mind still said the words in the darkness of his skull. _I would have adopted you, if I'd have thought you'd have wanted it._

Another regret to chew on when he was alone. In some ways, life was too short - and that aspect he'd wasted. He was so moved and distracted by that thought and by what Harry had said that he was unable to focus on Harry's words long enough to actually hear them. It was only by the mention of a name that his full attention was regained.

"…Professor McGonagall, Brian. She was my old Head of House, but she's Headmistress now. She's nice but very strict. I wish you could have seen her, before…" Harry sighed deeply, so that Albus felt the chest against him move.

His mind sharpened in alarm. He blinked away the pleasant images of a smiling Minerva which had arisen, quite unexpectedly, at Harry's mention. Before what? What had happened to Minerva?

"She's never been the same since…" Harry's voice drifted off and he looked sad.

Albus's stomach wove itself into knots. Images of an injured Minerva floated before him. He wished that Harry had said more about the subject so he could have learnt more, but Harry had moved onto something else after that - meaning that he worried about it now. Albus let a tiny sigh escape his small body. He hoped that Harry would talk to him again that evening.

Just as he was remembering all this, Ginny walked into the room. From his limited view, Albus could see that she was holding a bottle of milk. Luckily for him, his constant refusals to be breast-fed had gotten through fairly quickly - which was a relief. Circumstances may have changed, he thought, but there was no excuse for such knowing impropriety as that!

He waved his arms at the smiling face framed with red that hovered above him as Ginny picked him up and thrust the bottle in his mouth. He sucked obediently - there was no sense in being a difficult baby, after all - and somewhat ashamedly savoured the maternal warmth around him. There was an odd joy in being able to be loved like that again - it made him recall his own mother, a friendly, kind woman called Maria.

"Be a good boy, Brian," Ginny murmured at him in that high, baby-voice she always used when talking to him. Albus wondered what her reaction would be if she knew that she was cooing at her former headmaster. "You've got a visitor today! _Two _visitors. Hermione - you know Hermione by now, don't you? Oh, and Professor McGonagall!"

Albus nearly choked on his milk. Minerva! He would be seeing Minerva! He became aware of a sudden, deep need to see Minerva - to perhaps be _held _by Minerva… Harry's sighs and low words returned to him. He would be able to see what was wrong with 'Professor McGonagall' himself. Hearing Minerva called 'Professor McGonagall' was quite strange; he hadn't called her that himself in years - to think of doing so was somehow absurd…

Right on cue, the sound of the front door creaking open reached him. Harry strode into the room, smiling, accompanied by Hermione and his 'Professor McGonagall.' Albus's eyes went straight to Minerva.

"Arrived at the same time you did," Harry said happily. "Professor - it's good to see you again-"

"Professor!" Ginny cried joyfully. "Perhaps a cup of tea?"

That wasn't Minerva.

That was his first reaction - the person who had entered the room looked only vaguely like Minerva, as though she were a distant relative. Minerva was the goddess she had been named for - pride was in her step and fire was in her eye, with strength as her servant - Albus's inner descriptions tended to become progressively more poetic, until he snapped himself out it. The person who had entered the room was an old woman leaning heavily on a stick, lines carved deeply into her face and her eyes dimmed as though dust had coated the irises. Albus hardly noticed the small smile that etched the lines deeper still; he was too busy staring at the pitch black robes and the pale skin in disbelief, and in sensing the heavy aura of sadness and exhaustion this woman carried with her.

A flash of memory came to him, of a tall girl with raven hair bent downwards with books, who answered questions in an impeccably precise manner, unaware of the fact that half the male population at Hogwarts was watching her. Then another, of a young woman with full lips and emerald eyes, with hair creating a seductive night behind her. When had she gotten this old? Of course, having seen her through the different stages of her life, Albus had always nursed the image of a young woman in the bloom of her time as a part of the filing cabinet in his brain entitled 'Minerva McGonagall.' Yet as she had grown older, she had matured like wine - becoming just statelier in her presence and beauty. He had never noticed the old woman emerging…

No, surely, that wasn't Minerva…

With horror, he saw again the lines and too prominent cheekbones - the emaciated skull which had once been Minerva. Under the billowing black robes, he couldn't even fully comprehend how thin she must be. What had happened to her?

"Here, Professor - would you like to hold him?" Ginny said, offering him up.

His Minerva smiled thinly down at him and took him in her arms. Even through the thick black robes he could feel how bony and insubstantial her warmth was. Distressed, he kicked his legs and let out an unconscious murmur. Her arms enfolded him, and it had all the bitterness of a marred dream.

Then he stilled with silent agony. He wanted to scream "it's me!" but there was no way he could. He stared into the misty eyes and wished that he were himself again, with his old body, so that he could enfold her in his arms and ease whatever pain had brought old age so suddenly upon her.

**A/N: Insert traditional urge to review! And a thanks to all reviewers again!**


	5. No More

**A/N:** **Sorry for keeping you all for so long! There's been a lot screwing up my life lately; I'm afraid I didn't have time until now to update. My apologies! Hope you like this chapter and a big thank you to all reviewers!**

Minerva looked down at the child nestled in her arms and smiled. Despite this, the smooth pink body shuddered and she saw the sapphire eyes become shiny with tears. I must look awful, she thought distantly. Gently, she stroked one flawless cheek with a finger. Something ached dully inside her chest.

Once, she'd wanted to hold her own child and feel a vulnerable warmth that was half hers. She'd wanted it ever so much - had dreamed of it since her first crush and had still nursed the desire past the period in which it would have been possible. Lost children danced in the corners of her mind - children which were never created. It was both wonderful and terrible to hold the baby of a successful younger generation.

Weak fingers clutched at the material of her cloak. Her lips curved again and she snuggled the baby closer. It was then that she noticed that tears were wending their ways down the infant cheeks - but that no sound was emerging. The child was just staring up at her with vast pupils and a blank face, crying.

Her smile faded. Tears and silence were what she feared most.

Ginny made a small sound of maternal anxiety and extended her arms for her son. Minerva handed the baby over - and remembered its name - Brian. As Ginny tried to comfort him, she couldn't help but say it aloud. The shock of it, and how it had caught her so unguarded, were impossible to quell.

"Brian," she said, in a slightly hoarse voice. She gazed at Harry, hiding her trembling hands in her pockets.

The emerald eyes met hers. There was such a piercing intensity to Harry's stare that she was suddenly afraid that he would somehow see and know everything about her - and then it would be impossible to continue being stern Professor McGonagall. She dismissed the thought when she remembered that Harry had never been a Leglimens, but it was still enough to make her uncomfortable.

"Brian," said Harry, nodding slightly.

Something significant passed through the air between them. Minerva kept her face carefully inscrutable. Quite abruptly, she found herself imagining the expression on His face if He was still there to realise whom Harry had called the young Potter after. She forced away the image; there was no sense in aggravating the rush of emotion that had occurred when she'd made the connection.

"I don't know what's the matter with him…" muttered Ginny quietly, worriedly. Minerva saw her share a glance with her husband.

Puzzled and vaguely curious, the Headmistress looked more closely at Harry. She had never found Harry's face very easy to read - to her, the emerald eyes were the only features that betrayed any real emotion - which was strange; many of her colleagues had always acted as though the boy - and now a man - was the most transparent person on the planet. Indeed, she could quite clearly recall Severus sneering in the staff room at the 'Potter brat's inability to quell or conceal the most basic of-'

Again, her mind had hit one of the walls inside her head. Things seemed to be getting worse; she had violated her thoughts twice now in one afternoon… It was too late; a small flame of anger had clenched one of her fists inside one of the pockets of her robes. She forced herself back to Harry - whose worry was just detectable by the very minute tightening of his lips…

"How many sugars do you take in your tea, Professor?" Harry was suddenly asking politely, and the moment had passed.

"None, but thank you," she replied and Harry made a face.

She took the warm cup and sat down on the nearest sofa, and tried to ignore the large eyes that were gazing at her intently from Ginny's arms. Minerva focussed on the tea and attempted to concentrate on the irrefutable present.

* * *

Weeks and months passed. Albus tried to combat the boredom by playing games inside his head - counting the cracks on the ceiling, trying to recall the answers to the various crossword puzzles he'd once been in the habit of doing and going over the more complex nuances of transfiguration. The first two months soon exhausted such dissatisfying exercises and he soon began chewing over memories and questions. 

In the time leading up to his death, Albus had spent so much time thinking about the war and concentrating on the hefty problem of Voldemort, that it was hard not to fall back into the habit. More than once he found himself trying to estimate, for example, the alliances of the various members of the Wizengamot, before realising abruptly that Voldemort had been defeated, and that several of the Wizengamot had probably died. It was a very strange experience - the jolt felt was half pleasant and half terrible. He felt an immense curiosity about the whole thing: how had Voldemort been defeated? He had had several theories as to how it could be done and had obviously known that Harry would be the instrument of victory - but _how _had it happened, exactly? Harry had clearly destroyed the Horcruxes, but… _how _had he done so? _How _had he found the unidentified Horcruxes? _How _had the final battle against Voldemort had taken place? _How _had Harry won, when Voldemort's magical power had been infinitely superior, even when matched against the 'power he knew not?'

The matter of Snape's betrayal was the hardest thing to contemplate. Albus felt a bitter anger at himself for allowing himself to be blinded by Snape's (he found himself abhorring the name Severus) façade and for ignoring Harry's warnings. He had preached trust, whilst refusing to trust someone he loved. How could that be justified?

As for Snape himself! _You betrayed yourself. You betrayed your own reasoning, your own feelings, your own soul. You betrayed, above all, Lily's memory. _

He only felt appreciative of his new life when with Harry. Harry quite obviously loved the son he thought he had, and Albus did his best to live up to his new father's wishes. It was Harry's hands that guided 'Brian' as he stumbled and took his first steps. It was Harry who walked around the house with him, playing a primitive form of hide-and-seek.

Ginny boasted to her friends of her 'little angel.' "He never cries, you know. A little star. But give him a toy and he'll just stare at you as though he doesn't see the point."

Gradually, he was learning to control his new body. He had the feeling of simply re-learning an old skill which he hadn't used in a while and it was something to do to pass the time. Occasionally, he tried to speak - but that particular part of his body, to his frustration, simply would not obey him. Coordination of the tongue, gums and lips all at once was still difficult; the only sounds he could produce were gurgling noises. However, for the sake of the truth, he continued to try - and seemed to get slightly closer each time.

"Haaoorr. Haorreee. Hahhhhrrr."

Right now, the subject of his efforts was at work, and his 'mother' - a thought that shook him whenever it came to him - was humming to herself in the kitchen. It brought back memories of Maria Dumbledore, who had also hummed whilst making the dinner - his father had called her his 'bumblebee.' He had taken the opportunity to get away and had crawled into the dining room, to practise.

He swallowed and stared up at the mantelpiece, on which sat a photo of Harry and Ginny at their wedding, smiling and dancing to music only they could hear. It recalled the photo of James and Lily and he felt himself smile unconsciously before beginning.

"Haooorrr. Haaaooorrre."

Determination flared in him. He had to do this; he owed Harry and Ginny the truth, no matter how painful it was! Albus had learnt from the mistake he'd made during Harry's fifth year and would never repeat it.

"Haaooorreee."

Perhaps - perhaps if he learnt to speak, he would be able to talk to Minerva himself and ask her what was wrong.

"Haaweee. Hahwee."

Albus blinked. The sound was recognisable as being Harry's name. Maybe now…

"Hahwee. Ieem Allbuhsh Duhmballdooorr."

Excitement surged through him. Somehow, at last, he was remembering! The words were slurred and distorted, but one could know them for what they were. When Harry came back from work, if he could get the pair of them alone and…

Albus's enthusiasm faded. The physical rudiments had indeed arrived, but there were still the question as to _how _to tell Harry and Ginny. How would he phrase it? Where would he begin? Was it even possible to deliver such news gently? Ginny's horrified and shocked face swam before him: _she'd given birth to her headmaster! _And Harry… His thoughts stalled; Harry's reaction was impossible to fathom and unbearable to think about. It was all very well calling a child after someone who was dead, but it was definitely not acceptable for the said deceased to actually turn out to _be _that child.

In spite of what Harry had said earlier, it was still obvious to Albus that he would not be welcome. Even Sirius, he mused, would not be quite so welcome now - not years after he'd died, after the war had ended, not after Harry had had such a hard time getting over his grief. Albus tried to put himself in Harry's shoes - how would he feel if _his _headmaster turned up as his child? _Horrified, _he thought. _Devastated. _

The comparison wasn't exactly fair, though. Albus's relationship with his headmaster had never been as warm as his relationship with Harry had been, and it had eventually descended into outright hostility. Harry and he had been close; he could even be pleased that… But no. He swept the thought aside. It was the _concept_ that was important, not the _who. _

The child that was Albus Dumbledore gave a small sigh and rocked back on its heels. Harry would be back in a few hours, and then it would all come out.

* * *

Poppy Pomfrey's hands were folded primly on her lap and her mouth was pursed with disapproval. Rolanda Hooch stood next to her, her face twitching with the expression of anger that was threatening to overcome it and her hands on her hips. Poppy's eyes kept flicking to Rolanda with a look that was half warning and half sympathy before turning back to rest sternly upon their target. 

A lesser woman would have quailed under the looks the pair were giving her - but Minerva McGonagall was not among the ranks of these lesser women, and so simply gazed back at them. Her face gave away nothing of the turmoil inside her at the sight of the school matron and the flying instructor united in their quest to force her - if necessary, physically frogmarch her - into enjoying herself. Evidently, the unspoken message which Minerva had been projecting to the pair for the last few years had failed to breach Poppy's walls of concern or batter through Rolanda's spurned mental Beaters. Neither of them understand anything, she thought sadly.

"There are guests waiting for you," said Poppy, with a slight inflection on 'waiting' that nobody missed. "Rolanda organised it especially."

"I apologise, but these forms will not sign themselves," Minerva replied, gesturing at the papers on her desk. The office had been mercifully silent before Poppy and Rolanda had entered and now they were there, guilt was tearing at her like a mad thing. _It's not a lie,_ she thought a little desperately. _These papers _do _need doing_.

"Surely it is not necessary for them to be done _now_," said Rolanda stiffly. "Not this minute, this hour, this very afternoon."

"I'm falling behind. The school's affairs are a priority, Rolanda."

"And the party I arranged isn't?"

There was a nasty silence. Minerva dropped her eyes to the parchment and focussed on her own signature in an attempt to blot out Rolanda's hurt tone. Her signature embodied all that used to be, _should _be, Minerva McGonagall. The letters was neat and well-formed but the end of the 'g' was sharp and defiant.

"How very like you," she remembered Rolanda saying once, when they were younger, closer. "All demure and perfect - and then your temper flares."

"Is that was I'm supposed to say to the people waiting downstairs?" the present-day Rolanda snapped. "Should I go down and say, 'I'm sorry, you are not deemed to be the Headmistress's main priority today?'"

"Rolanda," said Poppy, and the flying instructor's jaw clamped shut whilst the matron assumed a professional stance. She looked Minerva up and down. "It is not healthy to shut yourself away. Your last health assessment worried me, Minerva. You are losing both weight and sleep. I would advise that you came down and got some fresh air and good company."

"I appreciate your concern, Poppy, but we can all expect such things as health to decline with age. Today is the day I turn seventy-eight, not twenty-one. I should think it is hardly appropriate for women of my age to go frolicking about at a party."

Rolanda gaped her and shook her head slowly, apparently half-stunned. "What's _happened_ to you? The old Minerva McGonagall wouldn't have been happy to 'decline with age!'"

Sparks of anger stirred behind the sadness. Didn't either of them understand? She wanted to be left alone! "The old Minerva McGonagall was younger and probably more foolish." She was tempted to say that the old Minerva McGonagall was dead, but there was no need to make a simple audience with two staff members into a display of dramatics.

"What happened to you? What's changed?"

"Will you not confide in us anymore, Min?" asked Poppy softly.

"Where's the Minerva McGonagall who made a laughing-stock of Umbridge? Where's the Minerva McGonagall who took five Stunners in the chest and whose first words upon waking were to swear she'd throw the old toad off the Astronomy Tower? What happened to the Minerva McGonagall who helped bring down Grindelwald? I ask - where is she? Because she's certainly not the woman sitting before me today."

Minerva winced and agreed. The Minerva Rolanda was talking about sounded like a completely different person. She clenched her fists.

"I would ask certain members of staff not to behave like rowdy students."

Poppy's face went as rugged as a cliff-face. Rolanda gaped again and stared as the woman sitting at the desk as though she couldn't believe her eyes. When she spoke, it was in a rather strained voice.

"When since have I been a 'member of staff?' Is this Professor Hooch you're talking to?"

Minerva's knuckles cracked. "I should hope so, unless you are suffering from some sort of personality disorder - in which case, you should consult my colleague next to you."

Instantly, she wanted to go back in time and snatch the words out of the air. Rolanda's eyes were moist and Poppy's firm façade had suddenly given way. She seemed older, and suddenly diminished.

"'Colleague?'" she repeated. "'_Colleague?'"_

"Forgive us," choked out Rolanda. "But we were under the impression that we were your friends - no matter how much you've tried to shove us away!"

The Headmistress found she had lost the ability to speak. Bile at herself crawled up her throat. She saw herself suddenly, as if from miles away: a cold, cruel woman hiding in her office, hurting whoever dared enter. Was that truly what she'd become?

She began to apologise but the flying instructor cut her off with a wave of the hand. "My apologies, Headmistess. We'll go now."

It was like a slap across the face - a slap which she deserved. _Headmistess! _No, nobody saw Minerva anymore; it was just the Headmistress, Professor McGongall, a face defined by her role. Her two ex-best friends stalked out of the room - and she realised she'd lost them. That was it. They'd finally got the message that she wanted to be left alone - and now she was. She balled her knuckles into her eyes and cried.

Meanwhile, Rolanda and Poppy waited until they had entered the relative privacy of the Hospital Wing before turning to each other with looks of dismay. Rolanda's eyes overflowed. The sight of the wreck of her friend spurning her had cut her to the core. Again and again, the scene replayed: the skeletal woman at the desk, with shadows under her weary eyes and a gaze that would not fully meet theirs, speaking curtly - harshly, even - as if they had not grown up at Hogwarts together at all, but were mere acquaintances. She gulped as her remaining friend patted her on the back.

"I've had enough," said Poppy in an uncharacteristically strident voice. "We've _got _to get to the bottom of this. I refuse to believe that she meant anything she said in that office."

"We've got to bring back Minerva," agreed Rolanda, wiping her eyes.

* * *

It had all gone wrong. 

Harry was gasping; the air seemed to catch in his throat and not reach his lungs. Reality was a contrast of light and dark - like his life - and there was only the Veil, only the Veil in the whole world. His forehead stabbed with the ghost of pain. He clutched at it, but hands seemed to be holding him, pushing him down-

Voldemort! Yes, that was it, Voldemort and the Killing Curse-

He struggled. He thought he could hear Ginny sobbing, but that was impossible; he was in the Department of Mysteries and she was at home-

Harry gasped. The image pasting itself before his eyes was intolerable, unbearable. The curtain swung back - again and again - and he was calling but Remus was stopping him, stopping him from helping-

"SIRIUS!" he screamed - but the iron grey eyes were blank and empty, and the Veil had engulfed the whole universe.

Now Voldemort was before him, red eyes livid with fury. Rage swept the fear aside. _I'll get you, I'll get you for all this - you killed my parents-_

He could hear their screams and cries again, just like he had with the Dementors. A hook-nosed man now stalked towards him. Snape! He tried to bring his wand up but the hands were still holding him down-

-Dumbledore was falling from the Astronomy Tower, his body curving away from the ghost-green of the Dark Mark, which cried its message of death to the stars - and now he was lying in the grass, his spectacles knocked askew, the blue eyes as vacant as Sirius's-

"COWARD!" Harry shrieked at Snape but Snape had disappeared. There was darkness and peace. Perhaps I'm asleep, thought Harry.

But no, Voldemort was back again, his wand pointing at Harry's heart. _Avada Kedavra. _Harry knew he was going to die - but the statue took the curse instead and hope flared in his chest at the sight of-

"DUMBLEDORE!" he cried - but no, Snape had killed him-

"COWARD, COWARD, COWARD! YOU KILLED HIM, I'LL KILL YOU!"

The hands grabbed at him more tightly. Ginny's tears were flowing down her beautiful face. Sirius was falling through the Veil again - and now Voldemort was too, but that didn't change anything-

Harry covered his eyes and moaned. "Peace, peace, please Merlin, peace! No more!"

Harry's body convulsed. The bedroom was full of the sharp, panicked cries of Healers as they struggled to hold him down. Ginny sat on the bed and wept. Remus handed her a box of tissues, wordlessly. He spun around as Tonks burst in.

"What happened?"

Tonk's hair had turned as grey as ash to reflect her misery. "Amycus - we were pursuing him through the Ministry - it was a break-in. Harry and the rest of us chased him down in the Veil room and Amycus - he blew one of the new recruits through the Veil." Her face twitched. "And Harry - Harry just l-lost it."

Remus turned pale. "Too many memories," he whispered.

Outside the shut door, Brian Potter - Albus Dumbledore - leant against the wall, his young body trembling. He was glad he wasn't in the room, watching Harry fit and sob, but the sounds were more than enough.

"_SIRIUS!"_

That first, tortured shout had been what had woken him up from his afternoon nap. The second shout - "_COWARD!" - _had been what made him unhitch the side of his cot and clamber out into the hallway. He closed his eyes and covered his face. A nightmare - Harry's nightmare - had swallowed the whole house.

_"DUMBLEDORE! COWARD, COWARD, COWARD! YOU KILLED HIM, I'LL KILL YOU!"_

His own name had acted like some sort of bodybind. Paralysis had ensured he'd heard all of Harry's shouts. A part of him wanted to go in and wrap Harry in his arms. _My boy, my boy, I'm here-_

Albus felt numb. The truth would destroy Harry; he knew it now.

"_Peace, peace, please Merlin, peace! No more!"_

He buried his head in his hands. Peace, indeed. Harry would have peace. No more. It was what he wanted too.


	6. Curse Him

**A/N: Sorry for the delay, folks! Thanks to all reviewers!**

Being diminutive, Filius Flitwick decided, was a definite advantage sometimes.

'Diminutive' was a delicate, elegant word. It had been his mother's word to describe him, and it was a word that - he hoped - seemed to instinctively suggest the possibility of the phrase 'despite being' existing before it. Admittedly, he was 'diminutive' in the same way that Hagrid was 'big-boned," but nobody at Hogwarts had ever made an issue of it - and now his position as vertically challenged was certainly giving him an edge over the half-giant.

Hagrid had been the centre of attention ever since the inspectors had arrived. Sadly it was not just the psychological effect of his size but also the continuing prejudice that haunted the school board and the Ministry. No, thought Filius sadly, one war was not enough to save Hagrid from upturned noses.

They had reached one of the most unpleasant parts on the inspection - the walk across the grounds towards where Madam Hooch was conducting a Flying lesson. The inspectors - bespectacled, stout, suspicious - always used the opportunity to fire questions at whoever was unlucky enough to be present.

"Er, well, really - yeh have to be unlucky to be allergic to Flobberworms, Madam," Hagrid, Head of Gryffindor, was protesting. His ruddy face was beginning to display traces of panic.

"I was not referring merely to Flobberworms, Professor Hagrid," a curly-haired woman with pursed lips was saying. "There are all manner of allergies in the world. Surely there are precautions..?"

"Of course," said the Headmistress stiffly, swooping to Hagrid's rescue. "Madam Pomfrey stores all possible antidotes…"

Filius eyed her worriedly. Under the harsh April light, she looked even worse than she had when inside the castle. Her skin was sallow and lined, and the brisk trot of olden days had slowed to a half-stagger, hampered rather than helped by the walking stick. Her voice was hoarse from lack of use - the past few months had seen staff instructions being delivered by owl. There had been no explanation at all and Filius had had to play the fool even more exuberantly than usual to keep the slightest of smiles on the faces of the faculty.

He shook his head and looked at the other two heads of house walking along beside him. Horace Slughorn was Minerva's opposite - having managed to increase in portliness over the last few years to the point when his waistcoat's seams seemed to defy possibility. He was bombarding one of the inspectors with indulgent banter ("Wilkins, I always knew you would get to high places, my boy") and fiddling with his magnificent moustache. Pomona Sprout stumped resolutely along at the rear, answering questions whenever the Headmistress failed to do so, a long-suffering expression on her face. Filius caught her eye and smiled. There was a flash of a grin before an inspector intruded.

"Ah, Flying lessons. The First-Years, I presume. I suppose Hogwarts has an insurance policy in case of injuries-"

"-None of which have ever been serious enough to merit its use," said Minerva sharply.

Rolanda was in sight, mid-way through her speech on seating position. The First-Years were straddling their brooms with doubtful expressions - with the exception of one boy, whose broom remained on the ground.

"-Mr Croft, you will simply have to be more forceful about it. Try again. Hold out your hand and-"

Filius saw her head turn in Minerva's direction as they approached - and saw it snap back again. Her voice grew even sharper.

It was not until they and the inspectors were within a few feet of Rolanda that she acknowledged their presence with a curt nod. Filius sighed inwardly. He was quite sure that Minerva's sudden detachment from the rest of the staff and the rift between her and the flying instructor were linked but Merlin knew what had happened.

"Madam… Hooch, is it? This is late for their first flying lesson, isn't it?"

"Yes, well," sniffed Rolanda, looking over the inspector's head at Minerva. "My budget for school brooms is _exceptionally _small and their lease ran out just before September - and, of course, brooms aren't top of the Headmistess's _priority list _so flying lessons were delayed."

The Headmistress flinched. Filius looked from Rolanda to Minerva and back again, appalled. If the flying instructor was prepared to break a façade of unity in front of an inspector, then the row was more serious than he'd thought. He locked eyes with Hagrid and Pomona, to find them equally shocked. The former's mouth was open and Pomona stared wildly back at him, obviously at a loss as to how brush over the awkward moment. Even Slughorn looked taken aback.

Time for squeaky, annoying, happy little Professor Flitwick to step forward, he decided. It was the first time he'd noticed a distinct gap between his persona and himself.

"The last three Quidditch matches have been very exciting!" he squeaked. "I was absolutely electrified during the last Gryffindor-Slytherin one!"

The inspector was still blinking at Rolanda, but the bait worked nonetheless. "I see! And which House is in the lead, may I ask?"

"Slytherin, naturally!" Slughorn declared proudly. "Of course," he added with a kind of modest vanity, "it's only fair to say that we have an uncommonly good line-up this year, uncommonly good."

"Yeh wait till the next Weasley comes along," Hagrid laughed

The moment had passed but Rolanda's face was hard and inscrutable, and Minerva was looking away from it all, up into the sky, as if she wanted to fly away. Filius shook his head again and let out a tiny, high-pitched sigh.

"Ah yes, Headmistress, just a few last things…" one of the inspectors said eventually and Minerva hobbled back to the castle, the inspectors politely slowing themselves to her pace. Filius watched the group fade into the distance and looked around at the other heads of house. A mutual, silent agreement took place - and none of them spoke until Rolanda's lesson was over and the First-Years were heading back to the castle. Slughorn twiddled his thumbs and had an unconvincing look of unconcern on his face, whilst Pomona simply stood stock still and glared at nothing. Filius tried to give Hagrid an encouraging smile - but Hagrid's height meant that it went unnoticed.

Rolanda was stowing the brooms away when Pomona finally spoke.

"Rolanda Hooch, what was that?"

The other witch said nothing and continued to lock the brooms away.

"You put the Headmistress in a very awkward position, just then."

Rolanda's silence continued and Filius felt uneasy. Slughorn's thumbs stilled.

"Not meaning to pry," he said genially, "but surely any little disagreement between you and Professor McGonagall-"

"It is not a 'little disagreement,'" said Rolanda.

Slughorn blinked. "My good woman-"

"My good man," the flying instructor interrupted - and she looked more serious than Filius had ever seen her - "and the rest of you. It's not even a disagreement really." Her face sagged. "Something needs to be done."

There was a pause and Rolanda turned away from them.

"It's not just me, is it? This is ridiculous. There's something wrong with her."

"The Headmistress-" began Pomona uncertainly.

"Please, Pommy, we're talking about Minerva here, not the Headmistress. And nobody pretend not to know what I'm talking about. There's been something wrong with her for years now; she locks herself away from everyone and I, for one, don't need Poppy to tell me she's unwell without seeing it for myself. This can't go on."

Slughorn fumbled in his pockets. "You're quite right. The woman," he said authoritatively, "is on the verge of some sort of breakdown. She looks dreadful. I suggest she be referred to St Mungos at once. It's stress, mark my words."

"That's odd - because I don't think it is. If it was stress, then why didn't this happen before, during the war?"

"An accumulated effect, Madam, an accumulated effect. Goodness, the war was hard on everyone and one mustn't forget that she was Albus's deputy during it all."

"A great man, Dumbledore," Hagrid said sadly. "A truly great man."

"Yes indeed," said Slughorn, with the air of delivering a moving eulogy.

"I think there's something more to it," said Rolanda. "I wanted to get all you lot together anyway - I think we should try and find out exactly what's going on."

"We can't go nosing into Minerva's private business," Filius pointed out.

It wasn't how he'd meant it but Slughorn seized on it at once. "Private business! Of course!" He looked up, misty-eyed. "It's a man she's wasting after!"

"Don't be ridiculous," Pomona snapped. "I _sincerely doubt _that the Headmistress entertains such ideas at her age!"

"I don't see why we have ter be all underhand," said Hagrid. "Yeh're - or yeh _were_ - her friend, Rolanda. Yeh oughter have asked."

"I did. And that's why we're not talking to each other any more. There was… there was a time when she would have told me anything, but not now. She's a closed shell."

"I still say it's a man," said Slughorn. "The lot of you have no romance in your souls! Just because a woman's old doesn't mean she's lost her heart-"

"You're impossible," muttered Pomona.

"Decision time," said Rolanda. "There's only one of us whom she talks to any more and that's you Hagrid. _You _should ask her - or somehow find out."

"But - but - I'm not her friend! I mean, I'm jus' the Care of Magical Creatures Professor-"

"And Head of Gryffindor, her old House. And another member of the Order. Aren't you lot having a reunion party soon? At the Potters'? You should ask then."

"But," said Hagrid. But, but, but. Rolanda was too determined.

* * *

Hagrid found himself nervously knocking on the front door of the Potters' house three weeks later. Usually, delight at seeing Harry again was enough to overwhelm him, but this reunion meeting would be overshadowed by his task. The flying instructor would be interrogating him afterwards and there was no escaping Madam Hooch when she was on target. 

Most of the remaining Order members were there already, sat round the Potters' dining room table, cooing at Brian. They met up once a year - and there had been an unspoken agreement that Order reunions also encompassed DA reunions - and so the first person Hagrid saw was Neville Long bottom - grinning and laughing as the Weasley twins displayed some of their new products. Remus - the years seemingly having dropped off him at the end of the war - was sat next to Tonks, who was entertaining their six-year-old daughter with her malleable face. The incongruous sight of Alastor Moody, scarred and grizzled, holding Brian, barely out of babyhood, was enough to made Hagrid beam. There was much handshaking and hellos before everyone settled down.

"Is Minerva coming?" Remus asked concernedly, looking at the groundskeeper.

"Er - um - I think-" blustered Hagrid. Moody's eye rolled round to look at him.

"Up to something, Hagrid?"

"Dunno what yeh're on about-"

At that moment, Minerva entered. Remus smiled but Moody's eye swept her up and down with a critical look. His ravaged face stiffened, drawing the scars deeper. Hagrid's elbow jerked off the table; how _was_ he going to ask her?

He'd even rehearsed the conversation in his cabin.

"Professor McGonagall, I was wonderin'-"

"Headmistress, I'd jus' like ter ask yeh, because I'm worried…"

"Professor McGonagall, now I know it might be personal…"

"Zis McGonagall, ze is sztealing you away from moi, Rrrubeus," Olympe had said, when she'd overheard.

"Cup of tea? Cup of tea, anyone?" Ginny hovered, the content image of domesticity. Hagrid smiled distractedly as her soft eyes rested on her husband and then moved on. The black-haired man's emerald pair followed her out the door and into the kitchen and then drifted lazily around the room, seeming to drink in the sight of peace anew.

Another happy couple flashed into Hagrid's head - another rebellious black mop and another set of russet locks. It was odd; how the Potters went for red-heads. He smiled genuinely at the connection he'd made - and felt a sudden burst of warmth as he looked around at them. The change a few years had made was brilliant, incredible. The people gathered there were at ease, their bodies a mass of relaxed curves and lines, their cheeks flushed with health and their eyes bright, quite unlike the set of haggard, worn individuals who had bitten their nails to the quick in Grimmauld Place.

"Yes, please. Oh no - I don't take sugar."

Minerva's clipped voice roused him. No, that last thought hadn't been quite true. Peace had damaged her rather than healed her - and Merlin knew why. He felt his brow crease in a frown. Something in the war - or just afterwards - had extinguished her spirit - and there was no forgetting that the Order had not escaped Voldemort unscathed.

Voldemort! Hagrid started in his seat. He could think the name now.

They had lost Sirius - now only a mass of tangled black hair and a wasted face to Hagrid, but he remembered the laughter and the handsome man Azkaban had all but destroyed. He hadn't been there, but Harry's face alone had conjured the Veil from Department of Mysteries and near pasted it on his mind.

A succession of grim images passed before his eyes. Who could forget Percy Weasley, redeeming himself through death and blood? Who could banish the sight of Dedalus Diggle having his soul tapped from his body by a Dementor? What person could escape the picture of Albus Dumbledore dead on the grass beneath the Astronomy Tower, spectacles askew and limbs akimbo?

A great man, Dumbledore, Hagrid repeated to himself, almost religiously. It was a scene from nightmares.

He shook himself and sat up straight. No point dwelling on things, he told himself sternly. Does no good at all. You'd do well to get on with your task.

"Professor McGonagall?" he said, conscious of Moody's eye resting on him.

She looked up at him, hands clasped around her cup and her back straight, the image of the eminent Hogwarts Headmistress. Professor Hagrid, groundskeeper and Care of Magical Creatures teacher, was asking her a question. Hagrid's courage flickered, like a candle about to go out.

"Uh," he began. "Professor-"

"Hagrid, you have my undivided attention."

"Er. Well, beggin' your pardon-"

"Aberforth!" Remus cried, shocked.

A tall, thin wizard was standing in the threshold of the room, his beard and robes dripping. He looked so thoroughly irritated and somehow out of place that the whole congregation gaped at him. Then Moody started up from his seat and hobbled forwards.

"Abe. Haven't seen you for a while now. Decided to show up at last, eh?"

Aberforth grunted and retreated to the nearest chair, which happened to be next to Harry. He directed a curt nod at the younger man and then shot a look at Ginny, as if to say, "where's my tea?"

Hagrid watched as Ginny rolled her eyes and approached the old man with a smile that defied his sullen expression - and then realised that the Headmistress was still waiting for his question. Embarrassed, he looked back at her and opened his mouth. His jaw clamped shut again at the sight before him.

Minerva's appearance was horrifying. The Headmistress was hunched in her chair, eyes fixed unblinkingly on Aberforth, the hands encircling the cup trembling. Her face was as pale as one of the Hogwarts ghosts and she looked stricken by some terrible calamity.

Hagrid found himself immobilised in panic. He had never, _ever _seen Minerva so distressed, so unlike Professor McGonagall. The calm, stiff essence that was the former Head of Gryffindor was shattered; sat before him now was someone frightened out of their wits, agonised…

Ill, he thought suddenly, ill! There was something wrong-!

"Headmistress!"

Minerva started; the cup dropped from her hands and scalding liquid spurted over her robes. At the same time her face switched back into an expression of impassivity; a door had closed, hiding a dark room from view.

"Professor!" Ginny was bustling over. Moody's eye was dancing between Hagrid, Minerva and Aberforth, making connections. Aberforth himself was staring at the Headmistress with a look of annoyed confusion.

Hagrid sat back, thoroughly bewildered. He glanced at the old man and then looked away, suppressing a shiver, before scratching his head. All this was beyond him, he felt. Minerva's horror was seemed to be centred in Aberforth - but how, and why?

* * *

She had to stop, barely ten minutes into reading the inspector's report. The words were growing blurred, and one of the pages was already marred with a wet circle. The portraits behind her were making soothing noises, though none of them knew what her problem was, nor could they help. 

"Damn him," she found herself muttering. "Curse him, curse him."

"That's right, my dear," said Dippet gently. "I always said that about the Chief Inspector too."

**A/N: "We waited and you gave us _filler?" _SIGH I assure you it all has a point...**


	7. The Dead We Loved

**A/N: Yay, another chapter turned round. Phew!** **A humble thanks to all reviewers!**

Brian Potter dropped down onto the grass, his little legs exhausted at last. Both the exercise and the heat had flushed his soft face - but he continued to burble happily, staring around with his large blue eyes at the sunlit flowerbeds and the glowing patio. An earthworm emerged from behind a large stone and eased its way past him. Birds spread their melodic discord from a nearby tree.

Inside, Albus Dumbledore did not need to fake the burbling that came so naturally to his new body's mouth. The garden, he noted, was an idyllic scene - the type of idyllic scene that, had he been an ordinary child, should have come back to him in adulthood and painted a childhood full of waving tree branches and sunlight. Brian's early life thus far had been almost identical to his in that the world was incredibly large and beautiful, with adults being nothing but shins and deep voices.

One only enjoys this once, he thought, gazing around cheerfully. Well, he corrected himself, _normally_ once.

The creak of a chair behind him reminded him of the presence of Harry - seated in one of the patio chairs with a glass of pumpkin juice in hand. One glance told him that everything was as normal: the green eyes were fixed on the persona of Brian.

Albus was rapidly beginning to separate himself and Brian into two separate people. It was an irrefutable, often painful truth and it was a concept that occupied a lot of his thoughts. Brian Potter was the longed-for son, the innocent child who now sat burbling on the lawn - blue-eyed, quiet, buoyantly cheerful, devoid of any of the normal tantrum tendencies - loved and cherished by both his parents, symbolic of everything the war had been fought for. In a perfect world, Brian would be sat on Albus's knee as an object to be revered for its very nature: the first-born son of Harry Potter, the next generation of hopeful youth. The Hogwarts Headmaster would have adored Brian, Albus thought somewhat sadly. Brian would have been treated like a scaled-down, adorably vulnerable version of Harry.

Then there was the late Albus Dumbledore - the deceased, R.I.P and all the rest of it. The former Headmaster was a pile of ashes or rotten bones, reduced to a memory to everyone who had ever known him. Albus sighed. How _was_ he remembered? From an unbiased point of view - as unbiased as it could be with himself as the centre of perspective - he'd been a strange old man who had been thrust into the leadership of the side of light. To Ginny, Ron, Hermione and the others, he had been a shadowy figure of authority and not much more. To the Order, he had been a leader and an enigma. To Harry - now there, with Brian's name as his witness, he had been lucky enough to be something special. When one really got down to it, however, he had been the chief manipulator of Harry's life, continually withholding information whilst at the same time idealising one of his own students. The word Albus assigned to this image was 'frustrating.' To his staff - Merlin knew what he had been. To Minerva…

Albus felt his mind stall. Confused, he reached up to stroke a beard that was no longer there. Why was it so important to know how Minerva remembered him?

Of course, Minerva counted as a friend and was one of those few people who had come close to really knowing him. Yet, in the grand scheme of things, there was no reason for him to adopt - or wish to adopt - any great significance in her head. No, he mused miserably, he had just been her boss - her silly boss who couldn't get the school records in order and was continually rushing off without any explanation at all.

Feeling irritated and upset - for no apparent reason - Albus forced Brian's body upwards again and took a few, tottering steps towards Harry.

There was a sudden warmth in his chest cavity. Albus halted, shocked. A familiar feeling was spreading over him, a wonderful, incredible feeling… The birdsong around him became rapturous.

Harry felt his brow crinkle. Brian was standing stock-still in the middle of the lawn, with a very odd expression on his face. It was one of what Harry privately termed Brian's 'adult' expressions - so convincing that it took great effort not to believe that Brian really was feeling such complex emotions as guilt or amusement. The look on his son's face now was one of joyous, disbelieving surprise.

"Brian!" Harry called, softly.

For the first time, Brian ignored him and continued to stand, head turned slightly upwards, the look of pleasurable comprehension increasing in intensity. Harry sighed and took a sip of his pumpkin juice. He looked up at the cloudless sky - and started.

A golden speck was drifting far above the garden. Harry squinted. It looked like a bird, a funny red and gold….

Memories bombarded him. A scruffy second-year stood in the Headmaster's office and gaped in horror at the pile of ashes that had been a bird - and later on saw pearly tears running down his arm. A grief-stricken fifteen-year-old fought against a golden statue as the same bird died for its master, and a sixth-year stared out of a window as the same bird flew away, its song shaping his misery into something beautiful.

It couldn't be.

He was standing, though he couldn't remember moving, and squinting into the sky, shading his glasses from the sun. The phoenix - for it was definitely a phoenix - was descending, diving its way towards the garden like an arrow. As it came closer, Harry could see the familiar fiery eyes and proud crest.

"Fawkes," he breathed.

_Dumbledore, _whispered his mind. The two were inseparable. The last time he'd seen Fawkes was as the bird flew away after his master's death. Bespectacled blue eyes twinkled at him.

_You think the dead we have loved ever truly leave us?_

The phoenix was in the garden now, mere feet away, and swooping down towards…

Harry saw Brian let out a laugh of pure joy and stretch out his short arms. Red and gold wings beat and the noble head extended - and the phoenix flew straight into Brian's embrace as if it were home. There was a squawk and boy and phoenix clung together, as the birdsong reached a crescendo.

Harry dropped back into his chair. Perhaps it was just because of the shock of the moment, but Brian's face altered, seeming to adopt the manner of one long gone. The large blue eyes twinkled and a small, knowing smile curved the infant lips. Then the impression was gone - but the phoenix was still there.

Emotion rendered Harry unable to speak. To see a neighbour walking a big black dog across the street was enough to choke him up, let alone the sight of his son clasping Dumbledore's old phoenix to his chest. He got up slowly, afraid of frightening the bird away.

The phoenix's head turned towards him and there was a trill of recognition. Brian smiled up at his father - and Harry got the impression that there had been some covert, silent agreement during the last few seconds - that Fawkes was his now and always would be. Tentatively, he reached out a hand and warm feathers brushed his skin.

"Fawkes… Brian, this is Fawkes…" Harry whispered, half to Brian and half to himself. "I can't believe it… It's like he's back from the dead…"

Brian buried his face in Fawkes's feathers. The phoenix crooned, just as it had in Dumbledore's office during Harry's sixth year - and, strangely, he had a similar urge to stare at his knees.

* * *

The Hog's Head was nearly empty; it was too early for the less respectable of its regulars to be present and too late for those who were simply being daring. The hag on the corner table was lingering over her drink and the cloaked man at the opposite end of the pub had his head in his hands and didn't look to be leaving any time soon. He'd just started on his third bottle of Fire-Whisky and Merlin knew how many he intended to have. 

Aberforth Dumbledore sniffed bad-temperedly and forced a cloth around a mug. This time of day was the worst, he'd found from years of experience. This was the point when one just had to stand there and play the waiting game. The end of the waiting game was always the arrival of one Sybil Trelawney - and then it became an endurance test. The ruddy woman always became so talkative - rambled until the urge to strangle her was almost unbearable.

This was also the point when introspection was most dangerous. Aberforth disliked introspection as a rule - it was unhealthy, for one thing, and impractical for another - but this hour was when it became impossible to avoid; when there was nothing else to occupy the mind or the hands.

Silly things came back to him. Everything was fine when he concentrated on his goats - ten generations and counting - but no, the silly, sentimental things kept on intruding. There was that woman he'd liked - what was her name, Pandora? Now _she'd _been the one to open up a box of misery and no mistake. Still, Pandora was better than Albus.

Images of Albus as an fresh-faced youth, phoenix on one shoulder and auburn locks tumbling down the other, obstinately ramming a stupid Muggle hat on his head whilst opening an envelope containing the most glowing O.W.L. results Hogwarts had ever seen. Images of Albus waltzing around in that embarrassingly vivid plum velvet suit, laughing at him as he scowled at it. Images of Albus arriving on the doorstep, windswept and pale but flushed with victory, babbling about his latest Auror exploits. Images of Albus spewing facts about Transfiguration, and rambling incomprehensibly about the 'forces of darkness' before rushing off to do battle with Grindelwald. Albus smiling and shaking hands at the Headteacher's Inauguration Ceremony, Albus sat at his office desk, the tips of his fingers together and the blue eyes bright and intelligent, Albus staring at him wearily from the other side of the bar, looking tired and depressed, Albus grimly going over an Order plan…

Merlin, how he'd hated him - for most of his life. He'd only really started liking him after he'd died. Now he was dogged by memories of the man.

What had he said, that evening eight years before? Of course, he was pretending to himself that he was forgetting, because the words were largely unforgettable as they were so unlike the normal Albus. It was deeply ironic that Albus had only ever once heeded his pleas for him not 'speak like a bloody thesaurus.'"

_Aberforth, why do you hate me?_

The eyes had been dull and the face lined. Yet what had he expected him to do or to say? He was the mighty Albus Dumbledore, and he was the grubby barman.

_Figure it out for yourself. _

What a stupid thing to say, he scolded himself, slamming the mug down with a bang that made the cloaked man start. And what an idiot. If he was so damned clever, he should have detected the evasion.

The next thing he'd heard, Albus had got himself blasted off a tower - by the man he himself had thrown out of the pub. It was a funny old world.

A sudden draft made Aberforth look up. The door had opened - and five figures were striding in. He blinked as he recognised them. The first to spot was Hagrid - a sight which made him scowl; he'd never had much patience for the big man. Then there was Rolanda Hooch, a woman who could hold her drink, Poppy Pomfrey and Pomona Sprout who were not well-known to him - and finally Filius Flitwick, another irritating presence. He raised one eyebrow in mild surprise: the Three Broomsticks was the usual pub for the Professors (who probably considered themselves too up-market for the Hog's Head, he thought moodily).

As they drew nearer to the bar, Aberforth realised that all of them, great or small, had one thing in common: their eyes were fixed on him. The flying instructor looked furious, the Herbology Professor resolute and the groundskeeper alarmed - but there was no doubt about it; he was definitely their target.

Rolanda reached the bar first. He opened his mouth to demand what she wanted - but one clenched fist had already hit the surface.

"Right. What have you done to Minerva?"

Aberforth stared at her.

Filius flapped his hands apologetically. "Now, now - let's not rush in-"

"What are you talking about?" Aberforth snapped.

"Don't pretend not to know!" Rolanda's nostrils flared. "We know you've given her some sort of trouble!"

"Rolanda, we're not certain of anything," Poppy said reasonably. "We can't just start making accusations!"

Aberforth ignored her; surprised indignation was coursing through his veins. "I've done nothing of the sort! I don't even talk to the blasted woman!"

"Then why has she wasted away?" The flying instructor was shouting now. "You've done something to her!"

"I don't know and I don't care! It's not my bloody fault if the Headmistress is ill-"

"Hagrid _saw _you!"

"Saw me doing _what?"_

Rolanda gaped like a fish. Hagrid looked panicked.

"Mr Dumbledore sir, I'm not accusin' yeh of anything but I - I couldn't 'elp noticing - please pardon me - but the Headmistress, she-"

"I have absolutely nothing to do with the woman! Now either buy a drink or get out!"

"I DON'T WANT TO TOUCH ANY OF YOUR FILTH; I'M HERE TO FIND OUT WHAT YOU'VE DONE TO MINERVA!" Rolanda shrieked.

Aberforth's fingers sped towards his wand.

"_ROLANDA!_" Poppy roared. Filius squeaked in shock. "Please, sir, Rolanda is jumping to conclusions out of worry. We're all very worried about Minerva; her health has completely deteriorated, as has her state of mind. We came to you because Hagrid has given us reason to believe you might know something - the Headmistress reacted rather strongly to your appearance at the last Order reunion-"

"Are you deaf! I don't know anything! I have no idea why the Headmistress looks as me as if I'm a damned Inferius!"

The Headmistress's white, agonised face swam into Aberforth's memory. He knew Minerva only vaguely - as the irrepressible supporter of Albus and Transfiguration Professor, nothing more. In spite of this lack of connection, he'd been shocked and confused at her reaction towards him at the meeting - but then, the woman was clearly going through some sort of inner crisis…

"Please, Mr Dumbledore," Poppy continued, hands fastened onto Rolanda's shoulders. "We're very concerned and any information at all-"

"And she was a friend of your brother's," Pomona added quietly.

Aberforth felt himself stiffen. He was too angry to move.

"I've never said more than three words to her in my entire life," he hissed through gritted teeth - and a tide of resentment burst forth. "The only reason people _ever _react to me is because of Albus! If it's anyone's fault, it's his; you've got the wrong man! I'm just the bloody barman! Happy now?"

Rolanda sagged, grey and miserable. Poppy hauled her up straight, sighing. Filius and Pomona were already moving towards the door, obviously aware that the audience was at an end. Hagrid, however, was staring at Aberforth with suddenly misty eyes.

"You can go too, you great oaf," Aberforth snarled - the words coming out even more harshly than he'd intended.

Hagrid didn't appear to notice. A reminiscing expression was on his face. "Yeh do look a good bit like yeh brother, Mr Dumbledore sir… yeah, definitely something 'bout the eyes and nose…"

Aberforth felt himself torn between hitting Hagrid in the face with the mug and enquiring further. The phrase 'you look like your brother' was something painful and endlessly repeated until Aberforth Dumbledore ceased to exist as a separate person and simply became a pale echo of Albus - but the memories he'd found himself perusing earlier forced themselves up again.

Poppy let go of Rolanda - leaving the flying instructor swaying and tottering towards the doorway. The Healer's mouth was a round O.

"Rolanda. Rolanda! Dumbledore. It's Dumbledore!"

A rasping, rough voice spoke abruptly into Poppy's ear. "What's Dumbledore?"

Alastor Moody eyed the scene curiously. Aberforth was standing rigidly at the bar, apparently immobile with rage - the Dumbledore blue eyes flashing and the long, bony fingers curled into fists. Albus's anger had been quietly passionate, impressive, limited in expression to the eyes; Aberforth's was violent, contorting his entire face with venom. Moody kept his normal eye on the old man whilst rotating the magical one round to the Professors. Poppy seemed equally rooted to the spot, gazing at him but not seeing him, evidently distracted by some sudden understanding. The spiky-haired woman was staring irritably at her with a grey, resigned face and Hagrid was looking around, obviously bewildered. Both the curly-haired witch and the miniature wizard were glaring at the ex-Auror himself with evident suspicion. At first Moody suspected that they were simply disconcerted by his revolving eye - but then remembered that the last Mad-Eye Moody they'd seen had been a Death Eater in disguise.

"An explanation would be nice," he growled. "I haven't seen Abe riled up this badly for some time."

"Alastor…" said Poppy distractedly.

Her eyes were turned towards Aberforth, busily surveying him up and down, and so she missed the Moody's gash of a mouth twist into a crooked smile. The ex-Auror stumped forward, fondly remembering the past application of poultices by the same hands that were now clasped together as a result of mental agitation. Surprised at the sentimentality of his thoughts, Moody opened his mouth to speak - and Aberforth suddenly regained his faculties.

"Riled up! I should say!" The old man stroked his beard furiously, worsening the tangles. "They march in here and spout unfounded accusations without so much as a greeting! I stand accused of harassing a woman I barely know!"

"Harassing women, eh? I thought goats were more your thing," Moody growled, confused. Poppy Pomfrey was not generally the type of woman to jump to conclusions.

"I've told them; I have absolutely no connection to Minerva McGonagall!"

Moody started - and Hagrid's vast form increased in significance. The last Order reunion meeting flashed into his brain - Hagrid, red-faced, shifty-eyed, trying to suppress his booming voice as he spoke to the Headmistress, uneasy guilt written all over him. Hagrid was hardly the most subtle of people - and his whole manner had been the one of someone forced to carry out an unpleasant, awkward task. That combined with Minerva's haggard appearance and her reaction to Aberforth…

He found himself chuckling. "Oh but you _do_ have a connection, Abe! A brother of yours, for one thing!"

Without waiting for a reply he turned and faced the Professors. "I suppose this entire thing is out of your clumsy concern. Well, well, let's see whether we can put it all together. How long has the Headmistress been in her present condition?"

Rolanda blinked at the ex-Auror's abrupt, knowing attachment to the situation and frowned. "Ever since the war," she replied sadly.

"Aye - and at what point during the war?"

"Well, really ever since she's been Headmistress."

Moody's grizzled head bobbed in a nod. "Oh yes, and I expect she never goes near the Astronomy Tower."

The flying instructor threw up her hands in frustration. First Aberforth had pretended ignorance and buried their one chance of a lead; now a mad old ex-Auror was accosting them with pure irrelevance! "What on earth does the Astronomy Tower have to do with _anything?" _she spluttered.

"No," said Poppy in a breathless voice, gazing at Moody with wide eyes. "No, she hasn't. She wouldn't go near it during the last visit from the inspectors - Slughorn had to take them up there."

"The Astronomy Tower?" Filius squeaked. "Are you suggesting that something very upsetting for her happened up there?"

"Does the Headmistress suffer from vertigo?" Moody rasped.

"Most certainly not!" snapped Rolanda. "She was a brilliant Chaser in her day and unless you think that one can fly a broomstick with a fear of heights-"

"I think nothing of the sort. This is a process of elimination. If she doesn't suffer from vertigo then _yes, _I _am _suggesting something terrible happened up there."

"Something did," said Poppy quietly.

The flying instructor shot her a baffled look that went unnoticed. Hagrid was scratching his head and the other Professors were wearing identical looks of incomprehension. Moody gave a long-suffering sigh.

"Put it together, ladies and gents. The Headmistress won't go near the Astronomy Tower, she can't stand the sight of Aberforth, her condition dates from her becoming Headmistress…Blimey, I was told you had to be intelligent to be a Professor…"

Poppy sank down onto the nearest chair. Rolanda stared at her in puzzlement. Filius gave a sudden high-pitched squeak that robbed Aberforth temporarily of all auditory ability and Hagrid's hands went to his mouth. Pomona's brow furrowed and she stared at Moody as though doubtful of his sanity.

"I _sincerely doubt _that the Headmistress entertains such ideas at her age," she sniffed stubbornly.

"Oh," said Poppy, softly, twisting her hands together and blinking rapidly. "She loved him, didn't she?"

Rolanda let out a cry of astonishment but Poppy barely heard it. Something inside her felt raw and tender; she felt her eyes being opened, her memories being seen again with an updated hindsight. The old Minerva floated before her, sprightly and fiery - sitting next to Dumbledore at the High Table, smiling as he bent his head to whisper something to her - standing in Dumbledore's office at the start of a short audience about health and safety, brushing her fingers over Fawkes's warm feathers. Minerva McGonagall, a friend since childhood - to hide a secret so badly yet still be undiscovered by a woman who was meant to be a kindred soul! How blind she had been, sitting in the Hospital Wing forcing potions down student's throats, complaining about Quidditch as a source of injury - all the while oblivious to Minerva as a force that failed after Dumbledore's death! What else had she missed over the years?

"I was supposed to know her," she whispered to herself. "She shouldn't have had to confide in me; I should have just known."

Rolanda was protesting wildly, gesticulating and expressing her disagreement with the most forceful of adjectives - yet there was the same look in her eyes; the look that echoed Poppy's soul in saying: _By Merlin, it's true, we've failed her! _Moody was arguing back, Hagrid was gently doubting, Filius excited, Aberforth disbelieving - but it didn't matter. Rolanda would argue herself blue in the face and then rise the next morning the epitome of astonished acceptance.

Now the question to be faced was: what was to be done? What distraction could remove the burden of such a grief that had lasted seven, nearly eight years? Poppy's hands twisted more violently. Was there _anything _that could bring Minerva back?

**A/N: Yes, I know, I know. Don't worry - Minerva returns in person next chapter!**


	8. Beyond All Stretches

**A/N: This is a longer chapter than usual. I'm not entirely sure whether it was worth it, but at least you have Minerva as promised. Thanks to all reviewers!**

* * *

Minerva McGonagall sighed and stared around the large office which had become her prison. Most of the portraits were empty, with the exception of Armando Dippet's, the subject of which was snoring softly in his chair, and the sunlight shining through the windows had a crystalline, cold quality which made her shiver. The day had never been destined to be a good one; she'd found a fossilised sherbet lemon behind a chest of drawers and had been unable to put it from her mind ever since. Neither had she been able to throw it away - she could feel the weight of it in her pocket, resting there like the heaviness in her soul. 

To what depths, Minerva mused, did a woman have to sink in order to cherish a mouldy old sweet?

She turned weary eyes on the papers in front of her, but then let them drift away again - out of the windows and over the lush grounds, tracing the route dashed earlier that morning. Hopefully, at that ungodly hour, no student or staff member had been awake or observant enough to see the Headmistress staggering around in nothing but her night-wear and a dressing gown, limping down to stand shivering at a tomb.

She'd woken up suddenly, horribly, at just past midnight. His absence had been all around her - and it was his birthday; those were the only excuses she had for the ensuing outbreak of sentimentality. Minerva didn't approve of being overly sentimental - especially when it led to someone her age clutching at a pillow and gulping, thinking: _You were here. You slept here for so long, for so many years. And I never-_

Movement was vital in order to cut the thought off. She slithered out from under the blankets and flung back the bed-hangings - and paced the room fretfully, cold to the bone but too agitated to go back to bed. Cold radiated upwards from the floor, filling her soul. She was still gulping and sniffing - like a five-year-old, she thought disgustedly - but no inner reprimands would halt the activity. A dam was breaking down; her eyes were filling with a deluge of suppressed water. _You'd have turned a hundred and sixty-one today._

Her hands were moving without any conscious intervention from her brain, reaching for a wardrobe, clawing their way through masses of irrelevant robes to reach the one treasure she'd allowed herself. Albus was both everywhere and nowhere at once as her fingertips brushed something purple and embroidered - sitting and smiling at her from his desk, speaking to her seriously and intensely, verbally beating Fudge by her side, sitting next to her at the High Table, offering her a custard tart. The sapphire eyes twinkled, the beard was at first magnificent auburn, then snow-white, the face both boyish and wise - the cheerful enthusiasm of a child in union with the experience and power of the very greatest - and yet he seemed to shake his head sadly at her as he saw what she was doing.

_You silly woman, _she thought at herself savagely. _What would He think of you? _

She dared not imagine, and could not stop - and soon His dressing gown was in her hands, extravagant yet soft, seeming to retain some of its owner's warmth as she wrapped it around herself. The material shook with the beating of the new wearer's heart - it had not calmed her down at all; the gulps were becoming the beginnings of sobs.

_Albus, I can't-_

A shadow danced in the corner of her eye. Minerva glanced upwards - and was struck by the image of herself in the full-length mirror on the other side of the room. The impression was ghostly, unnatural and most unlike Professor McGonagall. Even Hermione Granger would have had a hard time recognising her old Transfiguration teacher - her eyes wild and bloodshot, the flamboyant dressing gown obscuring her thin form, her greying hair tumbling uncontrollably down her shoulders.

His face swam before her, dismayed and appalled.

"Albus!"

Then the Headmistress was tearing from the room, through the dormant office and down the corridors. She'd forgotten her stick; she was soon gasping and stumbling, having to throw herself against the door to open it. The grounds were dark and freezing, beset with a howling wind that dulled the sound of her own ragged breathing. The dark and the tomb held no fear for her - how could they, when His spirit bestrode them all? The pain and the chill hadn't prevented her from staying there for at least two hours, her hands knuckled in her eyes and the dressing gown flapping its guilty message around her.

Now that day and some semblance of sanity had been restored, exhaustion dragged at her. The papers blurred and refocused. Minerva hadn't bothered going down to breakfast; one look in the mirror told her that Poppy would have made a fuss and insisted on putting her to bed, and some of the more sensitive lower years would have been alarmed.

_You stupid woman, _she thought again, massaging her temples.

A knock sounded at the office door.

Attempting to rouse herself, the Headmistress pulled herself up straight and folded her hands over each other. "Enter," she said crisply.

The door creaked open to reveal Rolanda Hooch and Poppy Pomfrey. Rolanda's mouth was in a thin, tense line and Poppy looked grim and worried - an expression that increased in intensity at the sight of Minerva; the jaw tightening and the brow descending. Rolanda gaped at the Headmistress in apparent horror. Minerva felt her hands curl into fists; evidently the day had not yet improved her appearance.

"Good afternoon, Madam Pomfrey, Madam Hooch," she said, deciding to pretend that nothing was amiss. Her voice emerged cold and formal; she had no right to friends, not even former friends. "What can I do for you?"

Poppy took a deep breath, as if about to plunge into deep and troubled waters. "Minerva-"

Minerva started slightly and blinked. Her first name sounded unfamiliar, like the name of a stranger.

"-We - we need to talk. Things have gone - gone far enough."

She opened her mouth to protest but Poppy was already drawing up a chair for herself, nodding for Rolanda to sit down in the other. Her eyes met Minerva's in an unexpected, passionate plea. "Please, for sake of our friendship - whether or not you still want it to exist."

Rolanda glanced at the other Professor with marked apprehension and seated herself uneasily, seemingly intent on looking at Minerva's hands rather than her eyes. Poppy leaned forward, concern clouding her kind face.

"What do you wish to talk about?" Minerva asked innocently, before Poppy could open her mouth. Minerva was gone; they had a choice of meeting either the Headmistress or Professor McGonagall.

"Minerva, you look awful."

There was no arguing with that. "I see."

Poppy looked extremely awkward. "Listen, we know what this is about. We're sorry - and _please _believe us; we are - for not seeing it before." She paused and Minerva sensed her donning her professional persona before continuing. "Long-term grief is taking its toll on you both mentally and physically and so it's my suggestion that-"

The Headmistress's fingers twitched. "Grief?"

Poppy and Rolanda shot terrified looks at each other.

"Grief," repeated the witch nervously. "Minerva, I think you should see a counsellor. I happen to know a very reliable one; a woman called Eleanor Reeves, whom I think would be-"

Minerva felt her lips stretching themselves into a desperate kind of grin. Poppy's awkwardness, Rolanda's conspicuous silence, the mentions of grief and counselling… Was it possible that they had seen? Had they happened to glance outside in the middle of the night and somehow pierced the darkness to spy her shame? Her fingers twisted convulsively; _anything but that! _What would they think of her?

An imaginary conversation flitted through her brain. Her former friends were gazing of the window with expressions of shock and pity. _By Merlin, Rolanda, surely that can't be..? _A hand to a mouth in horror. _What's that she's wearing? Isn't that Dumbledore's-? _A head being shaken, its owner appalled. _She's lost it, Poppy. Look at her; she's a living wreck. _

"I don't know what you mean, Poppy," she said. The sunlight grew colder; her tiredness more severe.

Poppy stared at her, despair shaping her face into harsh lines. Minerva had never been a Leglimens, but her old friend's dilemma was transparent: _what on earth do I say now? _She felt her cheek twitch and struggled to maintain control of her expression. _Are you afraid to confront me about it?_ _Are you afraid to ask me what I was doing last night? _

How times had changed! They had once told each other everything - confiding all their desires, nightmares and emotions, weighting their hands with each other's hearts. Now the desk between them was a veritable Berlin wall - but one that could never be breached.

"We've been blind, haven't we?"

Rolanda was speaking, her head bowed and her broom-calloused hands working the fabric of her robes.

"I wish - I wish you'd trusted us enough to confide in us. I'm n-not saying we could've helped, not really, but still..." The hazel eyes met hers. "_Seven years, _Minerva. _Seven years _and we noticed nothing!"

Minerva rose from the desk shakily and walked over to the window, using her stick as a strut, unable to look at either of the witches still seated in their chairs. The grounds looked desolate, soulless; looking out she could see herself reeling madly down to the tomb again, a ridiculous scarecrow figure in a dead man's dressing gown. The wood of the stick cut into her hands. Poppy and Rolanda's stares were burning holes into her back; the pretence was over now, and could never be repaired. Professor McGonagall, the stern Headmistress, had too passed into the abyss.

"I've not been like that every night," she said harshly. Give me some credit; last night was a - a particularly bad time."

"Last night?" Poppy's voice was high and querulous.

"I - I know what you saw." The pause that followed was unendurable so she kept on speaking, thickly now. "I apologise. You should not have had to see that. It was foolish of me - I don't know why I kept it."

"Minerva..?"

"Kept what?" asked Rolanda.

Her hands tightened on the walking stick till the knuckles cracked. Her face was distorting now, bending itself out of her control; she was glad she had her back to them. "Please don't try to deceive me. I've been deceiving myself for long enough; I know when people are trying. I know what you came here to say - and I quite agree. I will send my resignation to the Board of Governors today."

Rolanda made a small choking noise. "Resignation!"

A chair was drawn back and Poppy's shoes squeaked as she got up. "By Merlin no! Minerva, please, a counsellor is all that's needed - and we cannot hope for a better Headmistress-"

Minerva laughed. "You cannot hope for a Headmistress who can communicate normally? The profession must be in dire straits indeed!"

"Minerva, stop it! Please, we never came to ask for your resignation. We came here to offer our help and understanding, such as it is - as late as it is. I swear if I had had any _notion _before that you were that close to him-"

"We were never close, never. We had a purely professional relationship. Sometimes I believed it was platonic-"

"The pair of you were friends!" Poppy was right next to her now but the Headmistress stared resolutely away. "Oh, you never said a word to anyone, did you? Not even to him?"

She shook her head, unable to speak.

"You should've given it a go," said Rolanda quietly.

Her frame trembled. "_Should_ have, _should_ have - did not! This is purely fantastical speculation. He never wanted anything more than a Deputy and all this is perfectly ridiculous; he's dead and that's final. It is my inability to accept reality-"

"You're grieving! You loved him and now he's gone! These feelings are normal, Minerva, _natural. _Merlin, if I'd have seen it before-"

"Poppy…" There were no words, none at all. Her eyeballs were heating up from behind; soon her last reserves of self-control would be gone.

Arms encircled her. Poppy's head was on her shoulder, her short stature for once aiding her. Rolanda was moving over to join in too - and two warm bodies crushed her between them. Minerva stood stock-still, head filled with images of three girls in Hogwarts school uniform embracing under a small oak tree by the lake. Her hands came up; the walking stick fell with a clatter. Rolanda was crying, whimpering apologies in her ear over and over. Minerva felt her own eyes overflowing, dripping their contents down weathered cheeks. What friends she had! The loneliness was fading, the prison had been broken open.

"Ah," said Dippet worriedly, loudly, from the opposite wall. "Should I go and get someone?"

* * *

Minerva studied the scene critically. The two armchairs were placed a few feet apart - enough to be confidential but not so close as to be claustrophobic - and the tea set was positioned on the coffee table, ready to dispense a polite service. The chamber had been thoroughly cleaned beforehand; not a speck of dust dared float in the air. Minerva herself had selected a set of dark green robes to wear - ones that she judged to exude a professional, logical air - and had spent an unusual amount of time surveying herself in a mirror. She had a strange desire to ensure that Eleanor Reeves, of whatever character she may be possessed, would not find the area lacking, nor find her client 'going to pieces.' 

Of course, Poppy had probably exaggerated the situation and made her sound like a woman on the verge of grief-stricken prostration; Miss Reeves most likely expected to find a tear-stained invalid donned in black, clutching a small lace hankerchief. Well, Minerva thought, leaning on the walking stick, invalid is _half _correct.

Her eyes darted to the clock for the fifth time. Miss Reeves was due any minute. The more she thought about the concept, the less she liked it. For one thing, the idea of opening up her heart to a perfect stranger was almost incomprehensible and for another, counsellors were probably supposed to be strictly the province of _actual _tear-stained invalids near suicide, rather than foolish old women who simply could not move on after a tragedy and spent their days living in the past. How… _attention-seeking, _she thought.

The sound of Poppy's voice reached her from her office - and there was a knock on the door to her chambers. Minerva braced herself and marched forward. The door opened, the tapestry swung aside - and Eleanor Reeves stood before her.

The first impression Minerva had was of a pair of uncommonly large, dark eyes, sitting in a round face like two pools. The second was of a set of calm blue robes hanging off a body that was too small for them and the third was a set of grey curls that had been tamed, with varying degrees of success, into a small ponytail that served to emphasise the owner's lack of hair rather than length. Minerva was in the habit of assigning possible Animagi creatures to people, and the image that struck her was of a very small owl, head tilted to one side in a way that was slightly quizzical. The picture was neither alarming nor unappealing and she found herself shaking the proffered wizened hand readily enough.

"Minerva. I'm Miss Reeves, but you are welcome to call me Eleanor. Hogwarts is as beautiful as it was during my own days here - days long gone, I fear."

The dark eyes quivered with a spark of amusement.

Minerva heard herself murmur something polite and meaningless. Eleanor Reeves smiled and peered over her shoulder at the prepared space - and promptly flicked her wand, transforming one of the armchairs into a recliner.

"I apologise for the alteration, but clients tend to prefer speaking when in a more relaxed position. Forgive me. I must say this is quite an ideal environment." The counsellor beamed at the tea set out on the coffee table - and the Headmistress saw her eyes rove quickly around the rest of the room, before coming back to rest on herself. Minerva blinked; she was being assessed already before she had even begun talking. She cast a look around, wondering whether some out-of-place object had betrayed her, but her previous satisfaction remained preserved. She started at the sight of Miss Reeves already ensconced in the armchair and gesturing towards the recliner. Her muscles tensed. She had expected small talk and diversions in the form of sugar and tea and on subjects such as weather - not for the counsellor to charge determinedly to the meat of her purpose the moment she had arrived. Feeling distinctly ruffled, Minerva seated herself gingerly on the recliner.

Of course, she realised suddenly, the counsellor wanted her business over and done with as quickly as she did. It was a business like any other; Minerva was a client, a face to put a name to and nothing more. The sympathy extended would be professional, the listening something endured for payment. Perhaps she was even an interesting specimen, a psychological study in grief that the woman before her would eventually produce some article or report of. Her jaw tightened; she knew her thoughts were in the grip of cynicism.

"_Now Minerva," _Poppy's voice resounded in her head. "_This isn't the time to be rational - just blurt it all out."_

'Blurting out,' however, was more the province of Rolanda Hooch than Minerva McGonagall. Minerva McGonagall was a calm, self-controlled - some would say reserved - woman, who… A pang in her temple indicated the beginnings of a headache. The banshee in the mirror draped in Albus's dressing gown battered against her skull, screaming. If that was Minerva McGonagall, then who was she?

"Minerva, just to put you at your ease," Miss Reeves said, supporting her head with a rested elbow, "I would like to make two things absolutely clear. Firstly - and most importantly - nothing you ever say to me will ever leave this room. Everything is confidential, meaning that you are free to speak about anything you wish. Secondly, I am here to listen, and to understand - and to perhaps help you have insights you would not otherwise have. I'm not here to judge or condemn. I know nothing of your problem and so I come to you fresh and unbiased. I cannot help you based on the words of others; only your own words can tell me what I need to know to aid you. There's no rush, no unnecessary haste… Talk whenever you wish. Please treat me as a sympathetic, impartial ear."

The counsellor smiled encouragingly. Minerva sat at a loss, cradling the end of her walking stick in her hands. A kind of apathetic irritation weighted her. She had assumed that Miss Reeves would at least know something of the problem - the knowledge of complete ignorance and the fact that she would have to narrate everything from the beginning surely destroyed the point of the whole process. She looked up; the dark eyes were expectant. What could she say? "_I loved my superior and now he's dead." _Her lip curled at the absurdity of the image.

"You seem uneasy, Minerva," Miss Reeves observed softly. "Does something about this situation trouble you? Not to put words into your mouth, but I assume that the idea of confiding to a stranger bothers you."

"It does," Minerva admitted. "I am not used to such spontaneous expression. It takes me a long time to trust people."

"Is this the basis of your problem? That you find that hard?"

"No. Not of my main problem - though I dare say it has not helped. I suppose I could have been more forward about the issue to my colleagues and friends."

"Was there a specific reason why you did not trust them? Only tell me if you feel the need to."

"I felt it to be a stupid problem," Minerva said forcefully, realising that she still thought so. "Many others have faced the same problem and have been in the same circumstances. It is ridiculous that a woman of my age cannot put the past behind her."

"You have very high, specific expectations of yourself then."

"I suppose so. I expect myself to overcome obstacles, certainly."

"This 'obstacle' is in the past, then?"

"Yes."

"How long ago."

Minerva's jaw tightened more. They were approaching it now, drawing closer to her soul. "Seven, nearly eight years."

Miss Reeves's gaze became sharper. "During the Second War. Does it bear any relationship to those events?"

Minerva nodded, her throat dry. This delving was unpleasant, disturbing.

"May I ask what your situation was at the time? Again, don't answer if-"

"I will." The eyes had become whirlpools, drawing in her secrets like wrecked ships. "I was Deputy Headmistress and Head of Gryffindor House at the time. I dare say you have heard of the Order of the Phoenix - I was a member of it and intensely involved. I was second-in-command…"

"May I make an observation? There was a lot of uneasiness there, that was what I mainly got from that. Yet I don't think it was necessarily your responsibilities that were the problem."

"They weren't."

Miss Reeves sighed and leant back in her chair. Her shadowed orbs clouded. "Minerva, there is a lot of darkness surrounding the Second War - fear, grief, helplessness… You've said that the issue is one that you found hard to communicate to your friends; I think I'm encountering the same constraints here-"

"I'll tell you!" Minerva found herself snapping. She glanced down at her veined hands. The implications were undoubtedly correct - evasion could not help, pride was something she should long have since abandoned - what woman who had behaved as she had that night had any right to pride? "That war took something precious from me - from the world. I did not realise how precious it was until it was gone. I cared about someone whom the war destroyed, with someone he most trusted as its instrument. Compared to this man - compared to what he did - we none of us have a right to peace. He worked tirelessly for it and yet never received it." Her airways constricted. "I cared about him very much."

Albus's kind face rose before her. His deep, powerful voice reverberated in her ribcage; what wouldn't she give to hear him again? What would she not suffer for one inane chat about socks?

"How painful - how very painful and difficult it must have been for you."

"It's been eight years. I should be over it. I cherish the friendship that I believe I had with him but there was no rational reason for me to have developed such fancies."

"Minerva, what 'should' or 'shouldn't' be is not the question. I think what you've just told me demonstrates that your feelings were - and are - considerably deeper than 'fancies.' The length of time alone indicates real attachment there."

"His name was Albus Dumbledore."

The question hadn't even been asked and yet now the utterance hung in the air like a sudden spell. His name! His name had finally passed her lips in its entirety - to fill a gaping void that was unbearable, intolerable. Irrepressible, the forbidden had spurted forth like an uncontrollable fountain or a surge of flame. Now there was someone in the world who knew - who had heard from her directly - who knew that Minerva McGonagall loved Albus Dumbledore - and loved him still, beyond all stretches! This was why, this was the admission; this was why she was become as she was, the banshee in the dressing gown.

"It was silly of me," she said - and realised that it was a conclusion, rather than a starting statement, and that Miss Reeves's eyes held the mirror and the tomb as completely as her own did.

"I do not think it was silly," the counsellor whispered. "You were overcome - and no wonder, for I get the impression that you have spent most of the last eight years suppressing and hiding these emotions."

Minerva nodded, shocked at how the words had slipped out.

"You were unaware that you loved him until he had gone?"

"Not - not entirely. I suppose - there were times when I-" The Headmistress paused, licked her lips nervously and continued. The past seemed incomprehensible; how could there ever have been a time when she did not adore his presence? "Sometimes he was my superior, other times he was my friend- and there were other periods still when I felt for him. But I don't presume to have really known him… I idolised him from childhood, though in later years whether platonically or romantically I cannot say… I apologise; I'm rambling."

"I think you should ramble more often, Minerva. You say from childhood?"

"He was my Transfiguration Professor and was the one to guide me in my first Animagus transformation."

The stiff words meant nothing: the memories were returning, surfacing like ripples from the underwater movement of fish. Hindsight attached greater emotion to the visual snatches, the sounds and sensations of over sixty years before, daubing them more brightly and clearly than that old reality had made them, significance both ladening and lightening them. She pursued them - pursuit having been self-denied for so long.

* * *

He had already been halfway through the great epic of his life by the time she met him - yet his twinkling eyes were ageless, transcending century easily, despite the subsequent alteration of his hair and the deepening of lines in his face. That first day had made him just another face, just another teacher. Eleven-year-old Minerva didn't know she'd just encountered the greatest wizard in the world - her main concern was ascertaining whether he was nice or nasty, strict or funny, attentive or complacent. 

Rolanda and Poppy were moaning because Transfiguration, they'd heard, was the hardest subject on the curriculum, and the teacher was apparently "not to be crossed." Minerva, however, had a truly 'disgusting' level of enthusiasm.

"You _read _your Transfiguration textbook in your free time?" Rolanda said disbelievingly, as they lined up outside the castle. "You _read _it, _all _of it, of your _own free will?"_

"I found it interesting," said Minerva, embarrassed.

"Rolanda, don't be mean," scolded Poppy. "_You _went flying before you came to Hogwarts."

"Flying is a _fun, natural _activity."

"I don't think so. I'd rather keep my feet on the ground."

"How boring!"

"Not boring, I just don't like heights!"

There was a sudden hush: a teacher was approaching. Minerva looked up curiously to see a tall, thin man with auburn air and startlingly blue eyes. He was smiling benignly at them all but there was a power of presence about him, the precise nature of which was impossible to discern.

"Good morning, and my name is Professor Dumbledore," he said as he let them into the classroom to seat themselves. "Welcome to Transfiguration - in which you have the dubious pleasure of my company for at least the next five years." He beamed, and Minerva decided she liked him at once. "Now, expecting you to have perused the textbook is rather overly optimistic-"

"Please, sir, Minerva has," Rolanda said loudly. Minerva flushed as everyone's attention focussed on her and she shot a glare at Rolanda.

Dumbledore blinked and smiled at her, the blue eyes sparkling. "Excellent! Splendid! What is your name?"

"Minerva McGonagall, sir."

"Well, I see I shall have Miss McGonagall to depend on as a beacon of knowledge if ever my memory fails me."

He nodded at her happily and then proceeded to summarise the subject of Transfiguration, smiling approvingly at her every now and then.

* * *

Time passed, easing its way into major history so gradually that no one noticed. 

Minerva entered the Auror department to find it bedecked in decoration and the sound of merriment. Bewildered, she turned to Olivia Prang, who was beaming and prattling about parties.

"What's going on?"

"By Merlin, Min, haven't you heard?" Olivia snatched up a paper ecstatically. "The problem's gone! It's all finished, all over!"

A copy of the _Daily Prophet _was thrust at her. The headline said something impossible about Grindelwald and defeat - her attention was mainly caught by a photo of a battered but dignified man with half-moon spectacles. Albus Dumbledore grinned from the front page; the impossible had been achieved.

Her heart lifted. Freedom had come in the place of the darkness, because of her old Transfiguration teacher. Her mentor had flung evil down and she felt a surge of warmth.

_I must write him a letter or something.

* * *

_

"Minerva, there was no way I could possibly refuse your application," said Albus as he showed her into the office that had once been his. "Not with such excellent references."

"Most of the references came from you!"

"Precisely!"

Minerva gave a small smile. She was stepping into a role that had already been filled by a metaphorical giant - there was not even the remotest possibility she could ever compare - yet he treated her like an equal, welcoming her like the favourite student she'd once been, a protégé and friend. It was a compliment she did not deserve.

"Deputy?" she repeated, stunned.

"Who else, my dear Professor?" Albus said from across the desk, his eyes twinkling. "I can think of no one better to be my eventual successor."

She felt herself blush at the high praise. Dumbledore was perfection; wise, handsome, powerful, kind and yet humble - who, she thought, could ever replace him?

* * *

"Snape killed Dumbledore," said Harry. His green eyes were wide, his face ashen, shock and anger infused every line of his face. 

The truth.

A chair was being pushed under her but inside she was still falling. Albus, with his clear blue eyes. Albus with his love of all, with all his qualities that would have not been out of place in a saint. Albus, humming as he walked around the castle, sucking on a sherbert lemon.

Gone.

She had a most peculiar urge to laugh - the concept was absurd, stupid, something the Weasley twins had cooked up! Instead she was talking - Merlin knew what about, something irrelevant and foolish… Life without Albus was looming before her, wreathed in misery…

He had been there for her, always. She had not been there for him.

"This is all my fault," she said, with utter conviction.

But nothing sunk in until the night afterwards, after Fawkes's song had confirmed the undisputable fact of events. The photo on the staff room wall pasted itself before her eyes: Albus and herself eternally dancing at the Yule ball. From her window she could see the Astronomy tower, pointing upwards like an accusatory finger. Her first ecstasy of grief was silent, tearless.

In all the commotion, Filch was too distracted to enquire as to why all the surfaces on the Transfiguration office corridor were smashed.

* * *

Minerva reached for a tissue, desperately trying to stem the tears. Eleanor Reeves watched her with compassion whilst making a soothing cup of tea. 

"He would want you to be happy."

The Headmistress wiped her eyes. The counsellor had just managed to convey everything knowable about the dead man in less than ten words.

"Albus wanted everyone to be happy."

* * *

**A/N: Good, bad, indifferent? Tell me! HINT HINT, next chapter things REALLY hot up. **


	9. Human Intelligence

**A/N: Thank you to all reviewers! But I'm afraid I lied... it's HEATING up, but not HOT yet...**

* * *

The years passed. They altered things imperceptibly in their days and yet in their entirety shaped souls and faces, with the reckless abandon of a sculptor at play. The seasons cycled round, turning the world green and blue, orange and brown. The birds who had sung at a phoenix's coming laid eggs, the hatchlings of which had chicks of their own. Childhood sunshine began to turn to dusk. 

Brian Potter's small limbs shot outwards and his tiny face ceased to be all eyes. No toddler stumbled around the Potter family home; instead a skinny boy with piercing blue eyes sat quietly in his room and read - accompanied by the ageless phoenix.

Harry supposed that Brian had inherited a lot from the Weasley side. Ron's influence was everywhere in his son: from the flaming auburn hair and the long nose, to the sapphire eyes and lanky frame. There was also no doubt that the Potter short-sightedness had claimed him early, leading to a pair of spectacles at the tender age of five.

"Aye, I can see that," Moody had said once, after Brian had just exited the room from dinner. "But pardon me, Potter, when I say he still doesn't look very much like either of you."

The fact was undeniable. Brian's eyes were not the same shade of blue as Ron's, the red of his hair was unlike Ginny's and his frame was far spindlier than even Harry's. When neither Harry nor Ginny had particularly large feet, it did indeed seem odd that Brian should possess veritable whoppers. There was also something about his face, particularly around the region of his eyes and nose, that was totally unlike either of them.

"There's not a bit of you in him, Potter," Moody had growled.

The media had been quick to pounce on the rumours. Although the Chief Auror would not give them an audience, there were other sources, other wells of information to tap. Ancient history was dug up - there were whispers of Dean Thomas and Michael Corner and people as unlikely as Zacharias Smith.

_**THE DAILY PROPHET 22ND August 2013**_

_Sponsored by Madam Malkin's - voted Number One in wonderful witch wear! _

_In the days following his son's birth, Harry Potter, Chief Auror and Destroyer of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, vehemently denied rumours asserting that the child's paternity was in doubt, _writes Eliza Streng, Special Reporter. _Yet questions persist…_

Ginny had stared over the top of the paper with a pale face. "Harry - you don't - you don't think that-"

"No, of course not," he'd said, squeezing her hand. "Never."

What did it matter what illusions the world laboured under? He loved Brian - and was quite sure that Brian loved him. No, it was for other reasons that Harry worried about his son.

For one thing, the boy was extremely quiet and withdrawn. There were times when he seemed uncomfortable even with his family, and the other children who befriended him soon moved on. He preferred to listen rather than talk - and yet had learned to read so quickly that it was almost beyond belief.

"Harry, don't take this the wrong way," Ginny had said when he'd voiced these concerns. "But don't you think it might be due to you? Oh - not _you _personally, but your reputation?"

Ginny was right, of course. The more he thought about it, the more likely it seemed. The pressure on Brian was intense - had always been, from a young age. What boy could grow up normally when the shadow of his father extended far and wide, when Daily Prophet reporters still crept around the neighbourhood whenever they were short of actual news? What boy could find it easy to be happy when everything seemed to revolve around Harry Potter, and pass him by?

He'd tried his hardest to shelter Brian, to act as a buffer zone between his son and the media. However, success wasn't always guaranteed. There was that time when their first family outing to a zoo had been ruined by photographers and journalists, determined to get a snap of 'the Chief Auror spending time with his family?'

"Yes!" he'd snapped at last, thoroughly fed up. "I'm spending time with my family - or at least I was trying to! Then the bloody Daily Prophet sticks its nose in!"

Luckily, Brian hadn't seemed rattled by it at the time. He hadn't even tried to hide behind Harry but had calmly walked out in front, gazing at the zoo animals and seemingly oblivious to the photographers. A Gryffindor to the bone, Harry thought proudly. When they'd got home, with Harry trembling in anger, Brian had even managed to calm the situation down - by flinging his arms round his father's middle.

"Dad, it's all right," Brian had said in his usual, strangely eloquent manner, staring up at him past the new half-moon glasses he'd insisted on. "I'm not alarmed by any of it. The day wasn't ruined at all; the zoo was splendid."

* * *

August heat shimmered the air and cracked the ground. Brian sat not only on his bed, but on the brink of a new epoch - for both him and Albus. 

Albus aimed Brian's eyes at the blue brilliance of the sky outside, scanning for the blot of an owl. The expectancy of the last few days would have been exhausting, had not there been an almost equal degree of excitement. Brian's anticipation was one of a boy about to go to school; Albus's was one of a man about to go home.

_Hogwarts. _

The very word refreshed him, raising memories that were not all darkness and death. The visions of the sunlit grounds, the glowing windows, the idyllic spire of a tower that had once been his - all combined to create an urge in him that was lyrical in his potency. Had normality been restored, this would have been the sort of mood to induce the Hogwarts Headmaster to take up a brush and paint the school in all its splendour, or the faces of his colleagues.

There was a sense of dramatic irony in it all, he thought, in sitting where he was and waiting for a letter. For years he had watched the First-Years enter to be Sorted, terrified and disorientated, glancing up at the High Table with expressions of awe and apprehension. Now he was once again to be in the Great Hall - but from the perspective of an incoming student.

Yet no, that wasn't quite true. After all, he would not be looking up at the Great Hall with awe - he would be searching for familiar faces. The apprehension would be present, but for a different reason. His information, after all this time and the subtle questioning of Harry, was still sketchy. How had the war ravaged the faculty? What absences, what disfigurements, what newcomers would he see?

The Order reunion meetings - becoming fewer in number over time as the urge to reminesce got less and the desire to live grew stronger - had provided him with glimpses of only Slughorn, Hagrid and Minerva. Slughorn's corpulence was a tribute to his obvious well-being, Hagrid and the word 'indomitable' were always synonymous and Minerva…

He sat up and scanned the sky more desperately. He wanted to be there, to see her sitting at the High Table every day. That way, he could-

_-Could what? _Albus asked himself, confusedly. _What could I do other than simply watch her from day to day?_

That would be enough, for the moment. At the very least he was guaranteed seven years of watching and listening - which was better than the present.

Hogwarts. He had learnt there, taught there, led there - and now the cycle was set to begin again. Weariness flooded him. Hogwarts would both make demands of him and free him at the same time. He would have to play the part of Brian Potter, the frightened new student, make friends with children whose company could never satisfy him, learn about the war in History of Magic with the indifference of the next generation, pretend ignorance in subjects which he'd helped write the syllabus on… The very idea was tiring.

Still, there would be times when he could be alone. Places like the Room of Requirement would allow for an undisturbed dropping of the mask. Hogwarts was still his home, whether or not the last he'd seen of it was of a treacherous tower. And Minerva-

He frowned, only distractedly noticing a speck in the cloudless sky. _What are you thinking, old boy? _

A younger version of Harry's face swam before him, bitter and sad. What pain blighted those features! His own voice was reverberating around the office, soothing and firm at the same time, the projected serenity almost obscene in the light of what had just then happened. The words that came back now were his.

_"There is a room in the Department of Mysteries that is kept locked at all times. It contains a force that is at once more wonderful and more terrible than death, than human intelligence, than the forces of nature."_

Albus closed his eyes. He'd walked through that room several times in his life - not the room at the Ministry, but the metaphorical room inside. _More wonderful and terrible than death… _Back then, when speaking to Harry, it had been his darling wife Maria's face that had entered his head. His love and her death had been entwined - for what could be worse than loving and losing? Now the words had another meaning, and another face attached to them.

_Death - the forces of nature - _had been violated in his rebirth. That first aspect of meaning could be thought of dispassionately; the other levels and the face less so. He dared not think further. Why did Minerva's face appear to him?

His _human intelligence _was failing if he pondered that, someone in the back of his head pointed out. _You old fool. _What kind of man had the audacity to sit in his twee little office and talk about the room of love yet be blind to his own passions?

_Maria, my dearest, _he found himself thinking, as though mere thought could penetrate the Veil. _Forgive me. _

The owl tapped the glass impatiently. An envelope was tied to its leg, bearing a familiar seal. Albus - and Brian - roused himself and opened the window, untying the letter. This was it.

The letter was addressed to _Mr B. Potter. _The moment of opening the envelope had a surreal quality unparalleled by anything Albus had ever experienced before; for one wild second he considered flinging it back out of the window.

_HOGWARTS SCHOOL OF WITCHCRAFT AND WIZARDRY_

_Headmistress: Minerva McGonagall_

_(Order of Merlin, First Class, International Confederation of Wizards)_

The rest of the letter was largely irrelevant - the lines dealing with Headmistress Minerva McGonagall were the ones that held his attention. He sighed and crumpled the parchment. How hopeless it was!

* * *

"Please inform me if there are any problems. That is all." 

The faculty dispersed, heading to their respective offices to make the last adjustments to lesson plans before the new school year began. House-elves began to appear, to clear away the cold cups of tea and coffee. Minerva saw Poppy look her up and down with an expression of vaguely disgruntled medical assessment, but luckily time was too short for any remonstrations.

The school corridors were blissfully silent as Minerva McGonagall headed back up to her own office, walking stick in hand. Well, she corrected herself, it wasn't her office. It would always remain His office - but what sane person would object to that?

A mirror on the Fourth-Floor corridor provided her with a hint at what Poppy had seen. She halted and gave herself a quick glance. No, it was as she'd suspected - Poppy had no right to complain at all. The iron-haired woman in the mirror was hollow-cheeked and lined, but the improvement remained.

"_Minerva, I'm extremely pleased with your progress," _she recalled her friend saying about eight years back. "_Your body mass index is improving."_

"_She means you've got some meat on your bones," _Rolanda had added cheekily.

"_How disgraceful,_" Minerva had replied. "_I shall become bloated and fat."_

"_If you become bloated and fat, I shall jump for joy."_

She'd laughed. To this day she still remembered Poppy and Rolanda's encouraged faces; it had been the first time anyone had heard her laugh since Albus had died. What a debt she owed Eleanor Reeves - who had become a friend and now visited every fortnight for a chat! The old Minerva McGonagall was still dead, but the new one was no longer a living wreck, unable to communicate with anyone.

She still didn't like to talk about it. Once the initial confidences had been extended - first to Eleanor and then to her friends - the subject was laid to rest, much like Albus. Instead she talked about other things, having leant on and socialised with her friends more at the counsellor's urging. Only some nights, His birthday and the anniversary of His death remained intolerable - and then there was always Poppy or Rolanda to depend upon.

"_Surely you don't mean that I should descend on them whenever I'm upset?" _she recalled herself asking Eleanor incredulously.

"_Minerva, I think that's exactly what you should do. You shouldn't be alone at such times."_

"_I guess I'm just too proud."_

However, in the end she'd swallowed her pride more than once - and felt better for it. Albus wasn't coming back and part of her would always grieve for him but, as Eleanor had pointed out, He wouldn't have wanted her to be unhappy. There was also the fact that she was engaged in exactly what He'd always most enjoyed: passing on knowledge to the next generation. That she was still not the woman she once was was of little consequence; if Poppy expected a full recovery then she was a fool.

Minerva shook her head as she ascended the staircase to the office. How often she dragged up the past, at the most irrelevant and inappropriate of moments! How frequently she teetered between bracing happiness and reflective melancholy! It was enough to give anyone a headache.

The office was tranquil and warm, overflowing with Albus-esque good-will. The former headmasters and headmistresses were dozing in their frames, and there was no movement at all - except for the action of a silver-haired figure shifting in its seat to look round at her.

Minerva had no idea why she was surprised; the visits had always been the same: brusque, unannounced, irregular. He often turned up whenever she least expected him, with the attitude of performing a menial, tedious task that was nonetheless unavoidable.

"Aberforth," she said, walking around so as to see her visitor better.

Aberforth, as usual, looked grumpy and irritated, shoulders hunched and entire demeanour closed and hostile. His grizzled hair and beard were tangled in the singular manner of something that has been brushed carelessly with no attention to possible damage and with the effect of creating more snarls than before. The bristling brows were lowered and he stared at her coldly - yet that fact of his presence was an undeniable kindness.

"Professor," he growled, giving her a curt nod as she moved around the desk to sit down.

"It's a pleasure to see you," Minerva said. "Perhaps you would like a cup of tea?"

"That's highly doubtful. And no thanks."

She waited, but Aberforth merely continued to half-glare at her.

"I hope you weren't waiting here long?"

"Long enough."

"My apologies; I was in a meeting."

"I know."

She waited again, knowing that if she was patient, he would eventually be forced to take the initiative. The silence stretched. Aberforth shifted in his seat.

"You are well?"

"Very well, thank you." She made sure the last two words were obvious in their sincerity.

"Good, good."

There was another awkward pause. Minerva felt her gratitude become exasperated.

"Have you come to give me some news?"

"No news," Aberforth snarled, teasing his beard with his fingers. "The only news around nowadays is old news."

"Indeed," she replied, noting that he presented her with no alternative reason. "I suppose the Hog's Head is very busy around this time of year?"

"Busy enough, busy enough."

"My favourite is the Gillywater."

"Yes, women of your age tend to like that."

"Aberforth." Minerva sat back in her chair. The face of the man before her was cragged and guarded, like a cliff-face. "If you are so very busy then you shouldn't be leaving your pub to visit me."

"I didn't leave my pub solely to visit you. I was taking a break and thought I ought to drop by."

"Ought to? I was not aware that you were under any obligation to visit me."

Aberforth ground his teeth and looked thoroughly miffed. "You weren't, were you?"

She'd already dared to go further down the line of enquiry than she ever had done before, these past ten years. One could never tell if Aberforth was offended enough to completely estrange himself but the grinding teeth suggested he was close to it. What harm was there in going further, attempting to draw out an admission?

"Aberforth - there's absolutely no need for you to visit me the way you do. I do honestly appreciate your dutiful concern for me, but you don't enjoy it and so you may as well-"

The old man rose from his chair suddenly, sharply, eyes flashing. "Don't flatter yourself, woman! I have no concern for you and never had! Your incompetent staff can fuss their little heads over you but, believe it or not, I have more to busy myself with than old women! I detest this blasted place!"

Minerva sat, stunned at the sudden outburst. A raw nerve had certainly been touched. Aberforth's tattered cloak swirled, the fire leapt - and he was gone. Anger and mere frustration fought a pitched battle in her head.

"I can do without pity, Aberforth," she muttered under her breath. "Especially from men who cannot even bring themselves to admit that they feel it."

"What a thoroughly undignified fellow," commented Phineas Nigellus from the wall behind her.

* * *

"Nerves, eh?" 

Albus looked up from his toast and saw Harry beaming at him from across the table. He curved Brian's lips in a small smile and nodded. It was certainly no lie; Albus felt as nervous as Brian's position warranted. The castle, crowned in the splendour of a setting sun, floated in his mind's eye. Could he bear to stand in the Hogwarts grounds and gaze up the head teacher's tower, knowing all that had happened there and knowing its present occupant, without keeling over from both pleasure and pain?

"Don't worry," Harry was saying. "I can guarantee you'll like it there, Brian. I'm afraid I'll have to keep quiet on the subject of the Sorting Ceremony, but I can assure you it doesn't involve trolls."

"Trolls?" repeated Ginny, as the Potters rose from breakfast and donned their coats. "What are you on about?"

"Ron's brothers told him that he had to battle a troll. Come to think of it, he did too."

"How prophetic of them. Brian, go and get your trunk. And brush your hair - if you won't have it cut to a sensible length then at least keep it tidy."

Albus gave a very convincing little boy's moan and obeyed. Even after over ten years of practice, keeping the mask donned was extremely trying. He knew that it hadn't been entirely successful; Brian's mannerisms and speech weren't like a young boy's, and his vocabulary and knowledge were certainly beyond a eleven-year-old's. However, not for nothing had he been Hogwarts Headmaster for so long - the act was convincing enough to make Brian unlike an old man and merely a bit odd - and luckily his over-abundant repertoire of knowledge had thus far simply created a familial consensus that Brian Potter was extraordinarily clever for his age and would probably be "the next Hermione." There had been slip-ups, but not many, none to make a lasting impression - bar one.

"_Curious, very curious," _Mr Ollivander had said, blinking at Brian's lack of uneasiness at the former's penetrating stare. "_I happen to know from old records that this wand possesses the very length, core and wood of old Dumbledore's wand. How curious that Harry Potter's son should receive this exact combination…"_

Harry's hand had tightened on his shoulder painfully, and the old wand-maker had begun to speak to him whilst continuing to gaze at Brian.

"_Your son is not like other people, Mr Potter. He looks at me just as how old Dumbledore used to do so too… I'm not surprised the phoenix chose to stay with him. You watch him, keep him close. A most unusual boy indeed…"_

Albus experienced little of the journey to King's Cross (by Knight Bus), being too distracted by the growing reality of seeing Hogwarts again. He tensed at the sight of the barrier between Platforms Nine and Ten; home was getting closer all the while, no matter that he was entering it as a stranger!

At last the Hogwarts Express belched its steam before him and other young witches and wizards crowded around, shouting and tugging at their luggage. The scarlet metal mesmerised him.

"Got Fawkes with you?" Harry shouted in his ear, straining to be heard above the sound of the mob.

"He flew on ahead!" Albus replied, coming back into his role with difficulty.

"Good! Now Brian, don't worry about a thing! You'll love it! You write to me every now and then, okay? Remember your poor old dad whilst you're enjoying yourself, eh?"

Albus looked up at Harry's concerned and encouraging face, with its emerald eyes and livid scar, and felt a genuine pang. Affection surged through him - and so he grinned and flung Brian's arms around his father's middle. Out of the corner of his eye, another student could be seen staring at him scornfully.

_My boy, it does not matter what others see. Time's too short for that, _the spectre of the Hogwarts Headmaster addressed the boy cheerfully. _One must show love whilst able…_

A hollow emptiness became a void in his chest. Brian buried his face into his father's shoulder; he hadn't obeyed his own advice…

"Brian?"

Harry and Ginny exchanged worried glances. Brian had always been very affectionate but this display indicated some inner distress - yet the moment was over before it had begun, Brian was drawing back, smiling and promising to write.

"Make sure you're in Gryffindor!" Harry yelled at the flaming mop of hair that was his son as it disappeared into a carriage.

"Harry!" Ginny scolded.

Then the train was gone.

* * *

That boy - that one, with the orange hair and funny glasses - _know who he is? _

What? Him, sitting next to the window, staring into space?

-He's _Brian Potter. _You know, Harry Potter's son! Ronald Weasley's nephew!

He was in the papers, wasn't he - with a full colour family photo album in the middle of the Daily Prophet! It must be awesome, having such a cool family! And being so famous, for doing nothing but being born!

-Tried to say hello to him; just said hi back and then ignored me! And I was staring at him for ages-

-Probably thinks he's too high and mighty for us-

-Nah, bet he's sick of it all - must be so annoying, not being able to go outside without getting your picture taken-

-D'you reckon he's asked his dad about it all? You know, the juicy bits they don't print in the papers or teach you in History? I bet he has - and his dad's Chief Auror - so he probably knows more spells and stuff than all of us put together! And he's in _our_ year!

-Hey - what if he has his dad's cloak and map? You know - he's supposed to have an Invisibility Cloak and this special map of Hogwarts that-

-I asked him - and he said yes - so I bet there'll be a few good pranks played by the end of this year-

-He doesn't look much like his parents, does he? I mean, his mum's got orange hair and so has he, but other than that-

-What's all the excitement, what's all the fuss? It's ancient history, it doesn't matter any more! So his dad's Chief Auror and destroyed some mouldy old Dark Lord - so what? I wish the papers would get over it. And it's like with old folks. "During the war-"

-Oh, he's gone and gone off now! I think you annoyed him; he looked _well _angry just then-

-Who cares? He was all quiet and odd anyway, I bet he's screwy. Anyone know what the Sorting Ceremony's like? Or about any of the Houses? My whole family's been in Ravenclaw-

-Dunno, but I've heard that Gryffindor's quite…

Albus stood outside the compartment door, fuming. He clenched his young hands into fists and shoved them inside his robes, before setting off to pace up and down the corridor. It wasn't their fault - how could they understand something that had happened before they born? How could anyone understand anymore?

* * *

Minerva McGonagall watched as Deputy Headmaster Flitwick set the hat upon the stool and let the song wash over her, resting her eyes on the line of bedraggled, soaked First-Years standing nervously near the High Table. Rolanda nudged her and mouthed a name in her ear. She soon found Eric Weasley, the third child of Bill and Fleur, already bearing his father's rakish air, but he was busy gawping at the Sorting Hat and so didn't noticed the small smile she aimed at him. 

She was about to finally tune into the Sorting Hat's song when she became aware of the prickling sensation of sitting under a very intense gaze. Her orbs scanned the line again - and found a boy with long untidy auburn hair and large blue eyes, who was giving her such a penetrating look that she was strongly reminded of Moody's artificial stare that saw through everything.

Minerva expected the boy to look away once he became aware that his stare was being returned - but he did not. Oddly disconcerted, she smiled in what she hoped was a welcoming manner. _Brian Potter, _whispered her brain, finally matching a name to a face.

The boy's lips twitched in return. His eyes were wide, his face pale.

People were clapping; the song had ended. Filius cleared his throat and beamed.

"When I call your name, please sit and put on the hat," he squeaked. "Ainsley, Robert!"

The First-Years began to be be Sorted, walking off to their respective assorted destinies. Minerva found herself waiting for the moment when 'Potter, Brian' would be called - and when it was, watched the boy curiously as he strode up to the stool with an unusually confident manner and placed the hat upon his head.

Albus got a glimpse of the Gryffindor table craning eagerly at him before the hat dropped over his eyes. He waited, with the profound sense of the familiar and known all around him, and with Minerva's smile dominating a greater part of his brain than the issue of the Sorting.

"Well now-" The smooth voice of the hat cut itself off. Albus felt himself revelling in the shock of something that had always previously been frustratingly omniscient.

"By Merlin! You!" said the hat.

_Me, _he thought back somewhat smugly.

"Alive! And as… Merlin's beard, Merlin's beard! Such a thing has never happened! What? Oh, so you're enjoying my surprise, hmm? I have a good mind to put you in Slytherin or shout the truth to the whole school, _Headmaster Dumbledore!"_

_I would rather you didn't. It could make things exceptionally difficult. _

"Difficult, eh? Well, I must say I'm finding things very interesting at present. It's rare for me to rest on a mind as old as yours anyway. The things I'm finding…

_Please place me. _

"Now, now, Albus. Impatience is a virtue in nobody, least of all you - especially when you've been incredibly sluggish in realising certain things. Is this your plan, then? To languish away in another life and never tell anybody the truth? Or do you plan to proclaim your affections the next time you get sent to the Headmistress's office after a carefully obtained detention? Or do you want me to slip it in her ear some time..?"

Albus felt his knuckles crack as he gripped the stool in shock. The hat knew - but no, of course, it had got it all wrong - his affections? Really-

"I thought you'd come to terms with it," said the hat disapprovingly. "If you wish to delude yourself, then very well. You haven't planned a thing - which is very unlike you. Your mind has the hallmarks of a brilliant Slytherin, such cunning and resourcefulness…"

_I do not believe I'm deluding myself. And-_

"That was a rather circulocutionary thought."

_-I doubt I would like being a Slytherin for seven years. _

"No? Yet no prejudice in this head, only old pain. Wondering what's the matter with Minerva? I'll let you work it out on your own, armed with your great wisdom and almost supernatural intelligence… You have a honed mind, a beautifully honed mind. There's Slytherin cunning, Ravenclaw cleverness, Hufflepuff kindness and Gryffindor bravery all in here, all working in union… Hmm, what a decision…"

_Thank you. _

"Thank me when you've sorted your heart out as well as your head."

_I've been sitting here for five minutes. I don't mean to be rude, but-_

_"_'_Yet accidental rudeness occurs alarmingly often. Best say nothing at all, my good man.' _Classic, Albus, simply classic. Such interesting memories you have… I think I concur with my previous decision. That'll be… GRYFFINDOR!"

Albus took off the hat with a sigh of relief and marched up to Gryffindor table, barely hearing the cheers. He sat down, smiled distractedly at Abigail Lupin, Head Girl, and looked back at the High Table.

Connection sprang between the Headmistress and the boy again, an invisible thread attached their pupils. Brian's cheeks flushed; Minerva looked away and began talking to Rolanda Hooch. He closed his eyes for a moment, and the Great Hall faded from existence until only Minerva remained.

…_Proclaim your affections… _

Never; it was impossible.

…_Languish away in another life…_

He opened his eyes and the brightness of the Great Hall stung them. What other choice did he have?

* * *

**A/N: Bleh. S'okay, I suppose. Oh, if you noticed that the name of Albus's previous wife is the name of his previously-mentioned mother - don't fuss! No incest here! Just speculate, Freudian fans of the Oedipus complex. About Albus HAVING a previous wife... well, I just don't think that a 150+ man is going to be Mr. Virgin, okay?**


	10. Ashes To Ashes

**A/N: Apologies for that horrible last chapter. I'm none too sure about this one, either. Oh well. R&R!

* * *

**

A mere four days into the new school year - and already, there had been trouble. 

A bad sign, Minerva thought wearily as she made her way up to the staff room. It certainly did not bode well for the rest of the year when it had taken just two days for three students to be found wandering around the Forbidden Forest by Hagrid - Sixth-Years, no less, who should have known better. Then there had been the recent spat of trouble between Slughorn and Pomona - with the latter claiming that the former had 'mutilated her prize Tentacula with the base intention of procuring venom for his wretched potions.' Sybil Trelawney had yet again marched into Minerva's office to demand Firenze's immediate ejection from the castle, with the result that the Headmistress had felt very much like ejecting _Sybil_ from the castle. To cap it all, Professor Read, the new Transfiguration teacher, had stubbornly set the First-Years an essay that was quite beyond their capabilities despite multiple objections.

She shook her head; surely it wasn't all that bad? The Sixth-Years had been unharmed, with the lies simply extending to the idea of 'some man in the woods' they'd apparently followed, the prize Tantacula was hardly 'mutilated' and Sybil was as a permanent a problem as the drainage; one had to accept it and move on. As for Professor Read - there was no doubt that her own prejudices were interfering there. Perhaps it was because she lived in the past so much, but Professor Read would always be 'new' - and what's more, a usurper of her position. Minerva wondered whether Albus had felt the same when she'd taken over Transfiguration; she hoped not.

The staff room was ominously silent when she entered. Pomona was fuming darkly in an armchair by the fire, a book entitled _Repairing Herbological Damage _perched conspicuously on her knee, and Slughorn was red in the face and seemed inflated even more than usual by an air of injured self-importance. The room still seemed to echo from the sounds of a heated argument. Trelawney gave an obvious sniff at Minerva's entry and went back to her marking with a look that said: _That woman. She'll never understand me, the poor abused Seer…_

The Headmistress shot her a glare and made her way over the sofa where Rolanda sat. She rarely entered the staff room but when she did, it was usually to see the flying instructor. Rolanda had mumbled something at breakfast about one of the First-Years 'being uncommonly good on a broom - and the rule _was _broken once before…'

"Minerva!" said Rolanda, noticing her presence only she sat down next to her. "Glad you're here - the atmosphere here is _terrible-"_

"Yes, isn't it?" said Pomona loudly. "But then, _vandalism_ has never been welcome here at Hogwarts-"

Slughorn mouthed incoherently at the back of the Herbology professor's head. "These accusations are completely unfounded! My good woman-"

"I am _not _your good woman, Professor Slughorn," replied Pomona coldly. "If you needed ingredients, you simply had to ask-"

"I did! Several times! But to suggest that I-"

"And each time, I believe I informed you that it had not yet matured sufficiently-"

"Preposterous! Tentacula venom doesn't _need _to mature-"

"Headmistress," Pomona said sharply. "Professor Slughorn has admitted-"

"Admitted? I have admitted nothing! First you supply me with inaccurate information and then you accuse me-"

Rolanda rolled her eyes and gently put a hand on Minerva's shoulder to stop her from standing up to interfere. "Oh ignore them, they've been at it all evening." She leaned forward suddenly, with a serious, excited look.

"Rolanda, if this is about the First-Year-" Minerva began, deciding to stem the adulation before it got out of hand.

To her astonishment, Rolanda waved her hand airily as though batting away a fly. "Never mind about Mr Weasley; he can wait. Listen, I was going up to the Owlery and you'd never believe what I saw!"

"What?"

Doubt crept into her friend's face. "Well - I _think _that was what I saw - I only glimpsed it, you see, before it flew away-"

"Spit it out, Rolanda."

The flying instructor was looking more and more anxious with every second. Minerva felt the brown eyes sweep over her, as if a bombshell was about to be dropped and it was arguable as to whether or not the Headmistress could withstand the impact. "Minerva… I'm not _sure _whether it was his… it l_ooked_ like his - but I suppose it could have been-"

The sounds of Slughorn and Pomona's argument cut off, suddenly, as if all the debate had been was a broadcast on a radio that had been turned off. _His. _Minerva found herself leaning forward. _His_? As in… His? A pain shafted down the centre of her chest, down the internal scars left by the Stunners of over a decade before. She took a deep breath-

CRASH.

The door rebounded back off the wall, almost smacking back in the freckled face of Professor Read, who shouted something nobody understood, waving a length of parchment in the air. Minerva found herself in her Animagus form, the shock of the Transfiguration teacher's entry having forced her transformation and set her fur on end.

Embarassed, the Headmistress shifted back, and sent a disapproving glare in Professor Read's direction. She turned her head back to Rolanda - but the disturber of the peace was now shrieking something, continuing to wave the parchment.

"A genius! A genius! Oh, Headmistress!"

Minerva could feel a headache beginning. Martha Read reminded her something of Sybil, in that she was rather highly-strung and prone to screeching at loud volume.

"Yes, Martha!" she snapped. _Patience is a virtue, _chanted her brain piously.

Martha swooped down on her and shoved the parchment in her face. She glimpsed lined of narrow, loopy writing before the text was ripped away, to be held delicately on up-turned palms as though the professor was making some sort of offering to the sky.

"Headmistress! In my hands I now hold… an academic peak!"

There was a pause - Slughorn and Pomona having been stunned into silence, and the rest of the room speechless at the bizarre statement. Minerva gazed from the parchment to Professor Read's excited face and back again, at a loss.

"An academic peak?" she repeated, carefully.

"Yes!"

"Really?" asked Professor Vector. "I never thought that that was something that one could actually _hold, _so to speak."

Hagrid set down his book, scratching his head in obvious confusion. "Beggin' yer pardon, Professor Read, but I'm afraid I'm not understandin' yeh."

"Neither does anyone else," said Minerva acidly, impatience beginning to break free. "Spit it out, Martha. And please sit down and stop cluttering up the room."

Martha Read sank down into a chair - but continued to hold the parchment up, gazing skywards with a starstruck expression. "Headmistress," she whispered. "This academic peak I have here - is none other than the work of a First-Year."

Pomona snorted. "Then I sincerely doubt that it's any sort of an academic peak."

"This essay," Martha continued reverently, "is a work of _genius."_

There was another startled pause. Minerva raised one eyebrow: student's work had been described as _excellent_, _outstanding_ and _brilliant_ - and even then, those drooling descriptions were confined to reports and references. Students themselves were sometimes referred to tentatively as _bright_ or _talented_, on the basis of multiple essays and other pieces of work. To sit in the staff room and declare a student to be a _genius _was unheard of - especially when said pupil was a First-Year and the evidence was _one _essay.

"'Genius?' That's a very strong word," squeaked Filius from the other side of the room.

"Unless you are going to explain further-" began Minerva testily.

Martha snapped to attention and brought the essay down to lap-level. "Headmistress, I'm not sure if you were aware, but I set the First-Years an essay in their third lesson on-"

"I was most certainly aware. I believe I urged you not to set it."

"Yes, well… The essay was on the simple template of any normal Transfiguration spell - known as the Transmutation Matrix, which concerns the-"

"Once upon a time, around about the time when dinosaurs walked the earth, _I _was the Transfiguration Professor; I'm _quite _aware of the Transmutation Matrix," hissed Minerva. She clamped her jaw shut, knowing that if she continued, she would be completely unable to curb her tongue.

"Oh… Oh yes, of course," said the other woman, flushing. "Well… I only meant for them to do a very basic discussion of the main principles - but _this _student-" she waved the essay "-_this _student - oh, Headmistress, I've never read anything like it."

"Please stop gushing and get to the point."

"Of course, well, this student's essay - it reads like something out of the Transfiguration Journal!"

"Are you sure they did not simply copy out of it?" suggested Filius gently.

"They can't have - they explained it from a very neutral standpoint, when most articles in the Journal are biased to one side or the other and nobody's recently-"

"Forgive me," said Professor Vector. "But Transfiguration was never my speciality. This …Matrix is a template, correct? How can there be a debate over it?"

"There are many arguments over the actual fundamentals," Minerva found herself explaining. "It's very complicated: there are two views on how particles behave during Transfiguration, and then there are many standpoints on whether or not the particles can be manipulated in certain ways… Also, the Matrix fails to explain the _why _in _why does Transfiguration work that way? _There are even debates about it in regards to things like death, birth and ageing."

"Thank Merlin I never took Transfiguration beyond my OWLs," muttered Slughorn.

"Anyway," continued Professor Read, "this student covers most of the main debates and actually talked about _particles! _It's far beyond Seventh-Year level! I - I confess I don't understand a good deal of it-"

Slughorn raised his thick eyebrows. "You don't understand a First-Year's essay?"

Minerva took a deep, bracing breath. Martha Read was simply silly and deluded; she did not deserve to be shouted at, especially when she honestly believed what she was saying. It was time to be gentle. "I don't like to suggest it, but it sounds as though this student either copied out of a book on the subject or got someone more knowledgeable than themselves to write it for them."

Martha's face fell. "Yes… I suppose that's always possible," she said slowly.

"What's the student's name?"

"Brian Potter."

The Headmistress blinked in disappointed surprise - and then scolded herself inside her head. Just because Harry and Ginny were pinnacles of modesty and honesty didn't necessarily mean that their son was immune from human failings, she berated herself. Such prejudice!

"Let me read it myself, and perhaps it might ring a bell to me and allow me to pin-point the source or whatever he's copied from."

"Oh… oh all right then," said Martha, seeming to deflate like a popped balloon. "I'll just be - be getting back to my marking, then."

The door slammed, Pomona and Slughorn resumed arguing and Sybil continued to sniff. Minerva set the essay aside and turned back to Rolanda - only to find that the flying instructor had exited some time before, thoroughly worn down with impatience.

* * *

"Lights out!" 

Abigail Lupin was stomping around the Gryffindor dormitories, glaring at those who weren't yet in bed. Albus had had to suppress a knowing chuckle more than once; Abigail seemed to have inherited both her father's sense and her mother's forthrightness - when one Second-Year had refused to give up his chair in the Common Room, she had simply grabbed him by one ear and pulled him up to his dormitory whilst using her Metamorphmagi abilities to pull threatening faces.

"You, what are you sniggering at?" she demanded, staring at him as he began to draw the bed-hangings closed.

"Nothing," he said politely, suppressing a smile.

"Right then. _Nox."_

The dormitory dimmed and there was a brief silence in the first few minutes after the Head Girl had exited. Then the First-Years, the excitement of sleeping away from home having not quite worn off, began to whisper and giggle, sitting up and drawing back their bed-hangings. Albus drew back his own too; if he was going to relive life as a student there was no point in being stand-offish.

The other four boys in his dormitory were already chatting and laughing. His eyes moved to their faces one by one, knowing that his observation was unlikely to be interrupted. Stand-offish he tried not to be, but his lack of confidence in accurately portraying an eleven-year-old to actual eleven-year-olds and his awareness of being much older and inevitably cleverer had led to a good deal of silence on his part. That accompanied with awkward smiles and one word replies had soon given his classmates the impression that he wanted to be left alone, just four days into the term.

The first boy Albus's eyes found was Eric Weasley, the loud and humorous third child of Bill and Fleur. His young face was already very like Bill's, and Albus was certain that the coming years would leave a mark on the Hogwarts female population. He also happened to be Brian's cousin, and was the subject of an unspoken war between Molly and Fleur; Molly welcomed him into the bosom of the Weasley family, whilst Fleur firmly dragged him away to the Delacours, with the result that alone out of the Weasley clan, Eric and his siblings were perfect strangers to Brian. Unsurprisingly, Eric, out of all the Gryffindor boys, had been the most persistent in trying to make friends with him, chattering away at him in Potions until even a very genial Slughorn had wagged a warning finger at their table. Family connection notwithstanding, Albus suspected that it was something to do with the fact that both Brian and Eric was children of figures of the Second War and, as such, both had to deal with unwanted media attention.

The second boy, Mark Scott, had taken Albus's reticence as a sign of vanity and now tended to pointedly ignore him whenever he was in the same room. Mark also talked with the air of pretending to know more than he actually did; the Scott family patriarch's opinions could be heard in every word. The third, Daniel Glover, seemed to fall easily into the role of Eric's hero-worshipper ("I can't believe you can fly like that! I can't believe _anyone _can fly like that!") and the fourth, Cal Smith, was painfully shy, adopting an ingratiating manner every time someone spoke to him ("Really? Yes! I thought that too!").

"…And Madam Hooch said she was going to speak to Professor McGonagall about it," Eric was saying triumphantly.

"Wicked!" said Daniel, beaming. "I _bet _she lets you, too! You'll be the second youngest on the team in over a century!"

"Wasn't the first your dad?" Eric said suddenly, looking over at Brian.

"Yes," said Albus, injecting some hesitation into Brian's voice so as to reinforce the impression of shyness.

"What position did he play?" asked Daniel.

"Seeker, of course!" Eric replied, rolling his eyes. "Madam Hooch talked about him for half the lesson!"

"And then she spent the other half of the lesson talking about _you," _Mark pointed out.

Erin flushed. "Yeah, well - Brian wasn't bad either. Had you flown before?" he asked, addressing him again.

"Yes," said Albus easily. For one thing, it was the truth - Harry had often taken Brian flying on his old Firebolt, allowing for some ability to be displayed in class.

"He wasn't bad," said Mark. "But he was nothing like you, Eric. Did you see Madam Hooch's face? She thought he was going to be like his dad and he wasn't-!"

"He was still good," Eric interrupted, shooting Albus an encouraging smile. "And he's in the best in the class at every lesson."

"Not really," protested Albus, knowing that most normal eleven-year-olds would object to that. "I wasn't really."

"Yes you were! You got everything right first time in Charms - and in Transfiguration - and in Herbology!"

Albus had to suppress a sigh. Every time he walked into a classroom he resolved to make deliberate mistakes, to be slow at learning, to pretend to get confused. Unfortunately, the resolution was usually forgotten whenever the situation presented itself, and whenever it was remembered, it proved almost impossible to fulfil. Performing spells that were second-nature wrongly was incredibly difficult and took far more concentration than was required to cast the spells in the first place. He'd managed to set his feather on fire in Charms, but only after levitating it almost to the ceiling and he'd contrived to add the wrong ingredients in Potions, leading to a short scolding from Slughorn, but the mistake seemed too obvious to be repeated too many times. The worst crises had been in the first few lessons of Transfiguration - during which he had struggled to simplify his answers to questions and had had to repress the urge to clarify the inept teacher on certain points. All in all, it was exhausting.

"So, what do you all think of the teachers so far?" he asked, trying to make conversation. He winced; the question sounded just the sort of thing the Hogwarts Headmaster would ask if secretly disguised as a student - as he was now.

"Dunno, really." Eric shrugged. "Slughorn's funny, even if he does go on about all the famous people he's ever known. Sprout's all right, Binns is boring, Hooch is okay, I suppose… Read's annoying."

"Yeah - yeah I thought that," Cal agreed.

"I tried to run away back to the Common Room today, when she gave us that essay," Mark muttered.

"Really?" said Eric interestedly. "Didn't you get into trouble?"

"Obviously - that's why I still turned up, but late. McGonagall caught me in the corridors."

Albus felt his attention sharpen to a point. _Minerva! _Why had he not tried to bunk off too so as to meet her, even if only for a scolding? The other boys also sat up - but for a different reason.

"What's she like?" Daniel asked. "I mean, we only ever see her at breakfast and dinner-"

Mark shrugged. "Strict and stern. She all pursed her lips at me and acted as though I'd tried to throw someone out the window or something." He put on a high, squeaky voice that Albus didn't think sounded at all like Minerva's. "'Mr Scott, is it? Why are you not in your lessons? Run along immediately or I shall inform your Head of House.'"

Both Daniel and Eric laughed - and Albus found himself liking the latter less. "She looks ill, doesn't she?" the former commented.

"Yes. I asked someone about that - one of the Fifth-Years about whether she was suffering from some deadly wasting disease and was about to drop down dead. They got _well _annoyed and bit my head off - but they said she's always looked like that! And that, actually, she's gotten _better!"_

"My dad said something about her getting hurt in the war," Eric murmured. "It's probably to do with that."

Albus found himself sitting on the edge of his bed, as though nearness could affect the amount of information received. Minerva… _getting hurt. _But how? What had happened? Or had Bill simply been talking about her encounter with Umbridge and her Stunners?

"What happened?" he asked breathlessly.

Eric gave him a blank look whilst Mark raised one eyebrow. "I dunno. Dad didn't say."

Daniel yawned. "I'm turning in now. That Flying lesson really tired me out."

"Oh all right then."

The First-Years settled back down in their beds. Albus laid down with his back to the other boys and his face to the cold chill of the window. Through it, he could see the dark spire of the Astronomy Tower rising up against the moon. As though from a long way away, he again saw himself falling, with the ghostly light of the Dark Mark shining up above. How ridiculous it must have looked, he thought distantly. His beard and robes would have been all flapping in the wind - and Merlin knew what his body must have looked like.

"_I was the one who found his - his body…" Harry said softly, staring over the baby Brian's head at a past both dark and horrible. _

Poor Harry, he thought. On top of everything else, he shouldn't have had to find that.

"He's weird," he heard Mark whisper.

"Who?" Daniel whispered back.

"_Potter. _Too high and mighty to talk properly."

"He was a bit funny about McGonagall."

"He's bit funny about everything."

"Shush," said Eric.

* * *

It was late, and Minerva's body was beginning to protest as she dragged it up the stairs to her office - yet there was still the matter of Professor Read's 'genius' essay to attend to. Seeing it lying on the desk where she'd abandoned it earlier, she eyed it distastefully. 

_Prejudice again, _someone in her head pointed out. _You don't want to read it because Read loved it. _

She nodded to herself, accepting the charge. There was something so profoundly irritating about Martha that it coloured everything she touched or approved of - the essay, the embodiment of all things inanimate and harmless, seemed to exude a fussy, melodramatic air that made her want to throw it in the bin. Nevertheless, reading it would only take a few minutes, and Martha was bound to mention it the next day so there was no excuse to put it off.

Easing herself into the chair, Minerva found herself struck by the handwriting - loopy and distinctive, somehow old-fashioned and quaint. For a moment, she gazed at it. There was an aura of familiarity about it; something she couldn't put her finger on. She shook herself and began to read: she had never read Brian Potter's handwriting before and there was no logical reason for it to be familiar.

Fifteen minutes passed. Scepticism gave way to astonishment, astonishment to awe, awe to vague annoyance. She set the essay back down on the table and stared out of the window distractedly.

The style was impressive, far beyond the standard of most Seventh-Years. Complicated technical terms littered the text and the subject was analysed in a depth Minerva knew the that even Transfiguration teacher-training board did not expect. Martha had been right - this sort of thing belonged in an international professional journal, not in a First-Year's first essay. The mind who had written this was brilliant, with their knowledge standing beyond even her own, excelling her in reasoned speculation and theory. In fact, Minerva felt herself desiring to meet with the writer and have a good intellectual discussion about some of the issues they'd raised.

The name at the top of the parchment stood out at her again. _Brian Potter. _

She sighed and sat back. There was no doubt about it: the boy had either copied and not had the sense to copy something average and mediocre, or he had somehow persuaded a professional to write it. She fancied that there was something familiar about the style; perhaps she had read the work of the same writer in a book somewhere?

A disappointing, Slytherin-ish thing for the son of Harry and Ginny Potter to have done, she thought. Then fury fired her mind. Could she not suppress the prejudice? Would she always be looking for ways to think well of the children of her friends?

Trying to calm herself, Minerva got up and walked into her chambers, straight up to the bookcase. Stimulated by a First-Year essay, she took down a book and began to read, exhaustion forgotten.

* * *

The other boys had already gone down to breakfast by the time Albus woke up the next morning - with the exception of Eric, who had quite obviously waited for him. 

"Good morning," he said cheerily, as Albus washed and donned Brian's school-robes. "Are you all right now?"

"Sorry?"

"Last night. When you were asleep. It looked like you were having a really weird nightmare."

"Really?" asked Albus, a small version of himself beginning to jangle the alarm bells.

"Yeah - you went all rigid at one point, and nearly fell out of your bed. It really freaked me out. And you said something, too."

Albus stared at Eric, desperately keeping the happy expression pasted on Brian's face. What had he said? Had it been… _Minerva? _Why - why would his subconscious self want to call that?

_Thank me when you've sorted your heart out as well as your head._

He knew the answer really. He just didn't dare think it; the hopelessness of the situation-

"It sounded like 'Serverus.' Or 'Siverus.' Or 'Severus.' Something like that. And you said please to something. Can't you remember what it was about at all?"

"No," he blurted - but he felt the blood leave Brian's face. Snape stood before him again, ignoring his pleas not to turn his back on truth and justice and Lily, raising his wand, face contorted, sending him to his death. The betrayal was like a knife entering his ribcage, coldly penetrating to his beating heart. Poor, damaged, guilt-wracked Severus, whom he'd cared for in a similar way to Harry, had turned into the malignant Snape, merciless and filled with contempt for the man who'd supported him. What had happened, what had he done wrong?

Eric was eyeing him oddly; Albus struggled to get control over his - and Brian's - face, but the damage was done. Hopefully Eric would simply think it had been a horrific nightmare that Brian didn't want to talk about, which wasn't that far from the truth anyway. Neither spoke on the way down to breakfast.

Potions was first. Albus, too moved by the reported nightmare to try at pretences, brewed a perfect Anti-Boil potion that resulted in Slughorn talking fondly of Harry for half the lesson. Really, Albus thought half-indignantly, it wasn't as if he had ever known Harry all that well. I _had the monopoly there. _The thought of Harry calmed him, steadied his shaken nerves.

Transfiguration came next, this time punctuated with inexplicably stony glances from Professor Read and convincing failures at simple Transfiguration spells. The advantage of having once been a teacher who had understood where students could go wrong allowed Albus the satisfaction of successfully answering a question incorrectly.

"Your homework is to practice," Professor Read said reedily. "That is all."

"Come on," Eric said, as Albus packed away his bag.

"Brian Potter," the teacher squawked just as both boys were about to leave the room. "See me. Run along, Mr Weasley."

Confused, Albus walked up to Professor Read, head bowed in an accurate impersonation of a nervous pupil. Since Professor Read looked like the sort of person to be easily blown away by a strong gust of wind, such anxiety really did have to be feigned.

"Mr Potter. You are to come and see the Headmistress immediately."

"Why, Professor?"

He was astonished he had managed to speak, to ask such an innocent question. Minerva's face filled his brain - as it had been, strong and defiant, and as it was, hollow and pale. His body had frozen in shock; here it was, the ultimate test of his will, of his acting abilities, of his heart-

Professor Read looked outraged. "You may find wasting my time amusing, Mr Potter, but I assure you the Headmistress does not! Follow me!"

The corridors passed by like a dream. It occurred to Albus that, ironically, he felt just as any other First-Year would feel having been summoned to the head teacher's office. His stomach twisted; his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. Minerva had found out somehow, had cooked up some excuse for Professor Read to take him to her office, in a few minutes time he would be pouring out the whole story to her…

Then, perhaps, one day he would be able to tell her what he felt. Perhaps he would be able to do so when Brian was a man and Minerva an ailing old woman on her death-bed-

Of course, she would die before him now. That fact was undeniable. It made him want to hurl himself out of the nearest window.

When Brian was a man and Minerva an ailing old woman - surely that would be better than when he was trapped in the body of a child? He couldn't imagine the saying the words in a child's voice whilst in a child's body. The image was wrong. At least, if he told her at the last, then there would be a finality to it. There would be no need for rejections or pain, because she would be gone to her next great adventure…

"_Such interesting thoughts you have," _the Sorting Hat said again, but bitterly.

"Ashes to ashes."

The odd, macabre password was spoken quickly and the gargoyle leapt aside. They were ascending up stairs he still thought of as his own…

The door was before them. Professor Read rapped smartly on the wood, ignore the Griffin knocker. Albus stared at it vaguely, remembering what a terrific joke it had seemed when he'd installed it upon becoming headmaster. Griffin-door. Gryffindor. Now the door had become a portal to more than a joke.

There was an agonising silence, and then a curt reply.

"Enter."

* * *

**A/N: Be honest. How awful was it?** **We're starting our Brian/Albus-Minerva interaction arc. Stay tuned!**

* * *


	11. Moving On

**A/N: Thank you to all my splendid reviewers! **

* * *

Minerva looked up as Professor Read and the wayward student entered. Around her, the portraits mimed sleep, snoring convincingly - but ever ready to listen in and get a piece of the gossip. Doubtlessly after Brian Potter had left, either Dippet or Nigellus would insist on airing their opinions on the child. 

She glanced at the essay, sat ready on her desk, and nodded at Professor Read to leave. There was no point in becoming any more irritated than was necessary. Nevertheless, cheating was a serious matter, and the purpose of the interview was impress upon Brian the need for honesty in the future. Once the door had closed she looked up at the boy himself, to see what impression being summoned to the Headmistress's office was making on him.

The child's face was deathly pale and his blue eyes were wide; he was standing as far away from the desk as possible, seemingly transfixed by the sight of her. Minerva was put in the mind of shocked and terrified mouse being hynotised by a snake. Surely she wasn't all that frightening?

The urge to soften the blow came to her and she frowned at the impulse. There was no sense in being gentle now if it simply resulted in Brian's expulsion if he cheated at his OWLs. The problem had to be nipped in the bud.

"Mr Potter, please sit down," she said crisply, fixing him with a disapproving glare.

Brian gaped at her, and she found herself thinking how dissimilar to his parents he was - and yet, how familiar his eyes seemed. He walked across the room and sat himself in the chair slowly, and ripped his face away from Minerva's, turning it to his lap.

"Mr Potter, are you aware of why you have been summoned here today?"

The boy shook his head, his half-moon spectacles almost falling off. Minerva blinked; the glasses were an odd choice for an eleven-year-old.

"I think you _are."_

He looked up and gave her a searching look with his sapphire eyes. She waited but he was apparently unable to speak, so she continued.

"Brian Potter, I would like to impress on you-" She stopped, suddenly remembering exactly who the boy was named after. What would He have thought, she thought bitterly, if He had known that the boy named after Him would turn out to be deceitful? Anger sharpened her words. "I would like to impress on you the seriousness of cheating at Hogwarts. We do not tolerate such deceit here."

The boy stared at her insolently; he was obviously still pretending ignorance. Minerva felt her nostrils flare in irritation, and she picked up the essay and waved it at him.

"I want you to tell me whom or what you copied - for there is little doubt, Mr Potter, that you have copied. Trying to pass other people's work as your own qualifies as _theft. _I am deeply shocked and disappointed in this behaviour, and further attempts to cheat _will _result in me contacting your parents."

The child's face suddenly sagged in horror as he gazed at the essay. Minerva gazed at him coldly; he had been found out, the lie had been unearthed.

"What do you have to say for yourself?"

"I - I-" the student gulped.

"Yes?"

"I'm sorry, M-Professor."

The Headmistress blinked and narrowed her eyes. _M-Professor? _Had the boy just been impertinent enough to try and address her by her name? A fire roared into life in her chest.

"Mr Potter," she found herself whispering. "I will not suffer this impudence."

His silence infuriated her.

"_Explain yourself_."

Brian's mouth worked. Then-

"I apologise, Professor. It won't happen again," he said smoothly.

Minerva stood up. Students who did wrong and denied it when caught were bad enough, but students like the one before her - who at first pretended ignorance and then apologised so slickly, insincerely - were beyond the pale. The boy was _nothing _like his parents, she thought fiercely, _nothing at all. _This was a reborn Draco Malfoy at the peak of his insolence and disregard for authority - that the child she had once held in her arms should turn into this-! She placed her hands at opposite ends of the desk and leaned forward, so that the boy sank back in his chair.

"I'm afraid that more than cursory apologies are needed here! I will not tolerate such lack of respect, Mr Potter! Detention, on Saturday at five o'clock with Mr Filch! Now tell me what source you copied from!"

"I d-didn't, P-Professor! I honestly s-swear I didn't copy from a-anything!"

There was something wrong about the stutter, as if the voice's owner didn't naturally stutter but had felt it necessary to produce a passable rendition. Minerva felt herself becoming incensed. She stared into the pale, shocked face, suddenly feeling as though the whole display was an act designed to placate her.

"Then I would very much like to know an alternative explanation!" She drew herself up to her full height. "You have _blatantly _either copied from a book or gotten someone else both older and cleverer than you to write it instead! Provide me with the source or I shall be _forced _to contact your parents."

The boy gazed at her silently. His pale cheeks were beginning to flush and the blue eyes begged her not to do anything of the sort, but the pointed jaw remained clamped.

"Very well," she said quietly. "I'm writing to your parents tonight. You may go. Don't forget your detention on Saturday."

He got up from the chair and left the office. As he did so, Minerva was satisfied to see that his small limbs were shaking very slightly. The moment the door closed behind him, the portraits began to mutter as she sat back down at the desk.

"Disgraceful behaviour," declared Dippet. "Simply shocking."

"In my day," said Everard, "he would have been hung upside-down in the dungeons by his ankles and left there for a couple of hours."

"Well, Headmistress, you certainly had him cowed," commented Derwent, shaking her painted silver ringlets.

"On the contrary, Dilys," Minerva stated coldly. "I believe he was considerably less frightened than how he appeared. A cold and calculating student."

"Doubtlessly just the sort of boy Lestrange would have approved of," Phineas Nigellus drawled, looking over at the mentioned former headmaster's portrait only to find it empty. "But then, I never understood Dumbledore's fixation on the father-"

"-Who has little to do with his son, personality-wise," interrupted Minerva, irritated. It saddened her that He would most certainly have thought of the boy as a grandson - how disappointed He would have been!

She ripped a sheet of clean parchment from the roll inside the nearest drawer, and dipped a quill into some ink, wondering how to begin chastising the boy to his family. She was about to set point on paper when a small voice broke the overhead clamour.

"I wouldn't dismiss the boy out of hand if I were you, Headmistress."

Minerva looked around, at first confused - and then saw the Sorting Hat twitching on its shelf across the office. It was unusual for the hat to speak at all, and the portraits were automatically silenced.

"I saw some very… unusual things in his head. He won't go through Hogwarts unnoticed, that's for sure."

She sniffed and turned back to the parchment. "Unusual, yes, but not desirable."

* * *

Albus sagged against the stone wall outside the office and passed a hand over his eyes, trying to stop trembling. Every second in the office in front of Minerva had been like entering some sort of hellish underworld; first there had been the unpleasant jolt of discovering that he had absent-mindedly written the Transfiguration essay as if it was a theory paper for the Transfiguration Journal, then there had been the awful spectacle of Minerva's anger - let alone the sheer pain of the her very presence! He had been torn between keeping the secret for the sake of the preserved happiness of others, blurting the truth out for his own happiness, and simply not wanting Minerva to think Brian was dishonest - the last resolution having failed miserably. There had been no easy excuse for the brilliance of the essay, no way of making Brian the apple of Minerva's eye in defiance of what could only be seen as cheating. Now his old friend thought him an awful, deceitful pupil! 

Albus had only ever been the subject of Minerva's temper once or twice, and those few times had allowed him to be armed with some sort of defence. It was not her temper that had frightened him and had made Brian's body shake so, but the misery of rejection and contempt from someone he cared about, someone whom the Sorting Hat felt he had to sort out his heart about. How he longed to just shout out the truth-!

The stones of the wall behind him dug coldly into his back. Harry's reaction to a mere location had led to some sort of panic attack. Seventeen, nearly eighteen years had passed - how could his return be welcome, even to his old friends, when all his memory could arouse were thoughts of war and death? The widening gap of time between each Order reunion was testimony to the fact that people just wanted to move on. Harry and Ginny had deserved a real son, and deceit was necessary to maintain their joy in peace. Minerva also deserved peace; there was no unselfish reason to break it.

Anger made him thump a fist against the wall. Did he really value his happiness over Minerva's? And how could he have been so stupid as to slip up so badly, to write a paper so far above First-Year level? Tricking Minerva required a greater attention to detail than with most people; he was quite certain the Headmistress had picked up on his badly suppressed urge to call her by her name. He had nearly ruined the lie of so many years just because of his blind enthusiasm for a subject and his inability to separate the past from the present. _Look before you leap, old boy. _One thing was certain: what he'd told Minerva was true; it really _wouldn't_ happen again.

"Brian? Mate, are you all right?"

Eric was walking towards him, staring at him worriedly.

"What happened? Did Professor Read shout at you or something? Why?"

Albus blinked and tried to calm himself down. "I got sent to the Headmistress's office."

Eric's eyes widened. "Why? What happened?"

"They think I cheated on the essay. It was horrible; she shouted at me for an eternity and gave me detention on Saturday."

The other boy gave a sympathetic groan, and then looked at him narrowly. "You didn't, did you?"

"Of course not!"

"Don't worry, I believe you," said Eric, holding up his hands as if Albus had just pointed his wand at him. He beamed. "I bet it's because you're the cleverest student ever to come here and they just can't believe their eyes."

"Eric, it's only been four days," Albus laughed, determined to destroy the mistaken image of Brian-the-Boffin. "It could be downhill from here." _It will be, _he thought, still furious at himself.

"I don't think so. Come on - Herbology's been cancelled, apparently Sprout has to do something to one of her plants today because it got damaged somehow. Let's go back to the Common Room."

Albus nodded and followed Eric back through the corridors and tapestries, calming himself down on the way. His situation couldn't be helped; one could only hope that the deception held and that Minerva did not detest Brian as much as it had seemed. There was no point in reducing his persona to a quivering wreck in the meantime.

The Fat Lady grudgingly swung aside after demanding why they weren't in lessons and the warmth of the Common Room engulfed them. The boys made their inconspicuous way over to the side of the room, away from where a group of Sixth-Years sat alternately studying and chatting in one of their frees. Albus was about to flop down as a realistically exhausted eleven-year-old having just 'had his first blood' in the Headmistress's office, when one of the older boys yelled at him.

"Oi!" called Benjamin Stubbs, a tall and burly sixteen-year-old, from his seat near the fire. The Hogwarts Headmaster would probably have termed him to be a 'well-grown lad;' to young Brian he was a tower. "You there!"

"Me?" squeaked Eric.

"No, _you! _Squirt with the mad orange hair!"

"Benjamin!" scolded Abigail from her seat next to him.

"Well he is. Nearly Headless Nick wants a word with you-"

"Yes, he does," agreed the ghost as he suddenly floated through the opposite wall, causing a gathering of painted inebriated wizards to cry out in disgust. Nick glided towards Albus whilst Eric leant forward in curiosity.

"Is it true that you're Nearly Headless because-" he began.

"Later, later," said Nick testily, eyeing Albus up and down. "The Bloody Baron's looking for you," he announced, raising one delicate ghostly eyebrow. "I have absolutely no idea why; he wouldn't say. I hope you haven't been getting into trouble, young Mr Potter - though it does run in the family, I must say. But you don't look like your father - by Merlin, I swear you look like someone else, though whom I cannot say."

Albus stiffened. The Gryffindor ghost had been an acquaintance of his true teenage self during his first time at Hogwarts; evidently some distant memory had been triggered. He was about to make some claim to the effect that Ginny had told him that he was a throwback to one of the old Prewetts on Molly's side - an idea Nick would be unable to contradict as Molly's brothers had been the first in their family to go to Hogwarts, when the ghost started and looked at him still more strangely.

"I say! I think I remember now! You look like a boy I used to know over a hundred years back! A funny madcap who kept on wearing a silly Muggle hat just because it wasn't allowed. Got on the wrong side of the then Headmaster, I seem to recall. Goodness, I wish I could remember what his name was - I believe he turned out to be someone important-"

"What a bizarre coincidence," Albus interrupted. "It's strange how things happen like that."

"Yeah," said Eric helpfully. "Once, someone told me that I was identical down to the last freckle to their great-uncle as a boy, which is very strange because I'm not related to them at all!"

"Well, anyway… The Bloody Baron. I wouldn't get mixed up with him if I were you. He said something about wanting to catch you before your lessons tomorrow."

"Okay," Albus replied. "So long as he's reasonable about whatever it is."

Nearly Headless Nick and Erin both looked at him with odd expressions. "You're very confident for your age," the ghost commented at last. "Don't become rash now!"

* * *

Minerva McGonagall walked up to the Owlery, sealed letter in hand. Stepping delicately over the floor stained white by centuries of bird-droppings, she headed for the nearest school-owl, an elegant tawny. It really was a shame, she thought as she tied the letter to the bird's leg. Harry and Ginny would certainly be less than happy. 

Once the owl had flown off, she left the acrid stench of the tower for the battlements outside. September meant it was cold and windy; gusts teased at her silver hair, trying to entice it out of its bun. Dinner was drawing near but she had a strange compulsion to stand and watch the clouds for a bit, and think of nothing.

How long she stood there, she did not know, only that it was long enough for the chill to finally reach her bones and make her draw her cloak closer. Minerva turned to go back inside - and caught a glimpse of something red and gold.

The wind carried a melodic cry. Something was flying over past the Owlery, soaring towards the Forbidden Forest.

She looked up, and the breath caught in her throat. The red and gold feathers, the proud crest, the streaming tail - the thing flying towards the trees was a phoenix. She gulped and hobbled to the far end of the battlements, peering intently at the feathered form. Rolanda's words came back into her head; was it _His? _Was it _Fawkes? _

The phoenix circled, turning back towards the castle. Minerva saw the crested head turn towards her, and the hundreds of feet that separated woman and bird were pierced by an intense look reminiscent of its owner. Suddenly, the idea of the phoenix being any other _but _Fawkes seemed preposterous. Convinced she was dreaming, the Headmistress let her walking stick fall and proffered an arm.

Albus and the phoenix were together in her mind, they always would be. Ever since she'd first walked into his office and seen both him and the bird look up at the same time - their heads both inclined quizzically to the side, the soft brown avian eyes seeming to imitate the sharp blue human ones - one could not exist without the other. In reality, it was impossible for the phoenix to be Fawkes because that would be too wonderful, too suggestive of an unattainable fantasy…

The phoenix was mere feet away now, obviously accepting the offer of her arm. Contrary to all reason, she could see that it was definitely Fawkes; there was something distinctive about the crest. The moment was so utterly surreal that she half expected to see Him appear round the side of the Owlery, humming a little tune.

Fawkes landed on her arm, and at the same time, footsteps could be heard echoing up the stairs in the tower. Minerva ignored them and crushed the bird against her chest, savouring the warmth of the feathers and deciding to enjoy the dream whilst she could.

"Fawkes," she whispered. "What are you doing here, back again without your master?"

The phoenix squawked as though in protest, but rested its head against her shoulder. Minerva ran a finger down the proud neck and into the soft plumage.

"Minerva!" Rolanda's voice said abruptly. "There you are! Listen, about what I said yesterday-"

"I know," the Headmistress said, shocked, turning round. She knew it wasn't a dream now; had it been a dream then the moment would have remained uninterrupted until Albus's appearance. Stunned, she looked at the phoenix in her arms and then up at Rolanda, who was gaping at the scene.

"Oh," said the flying instructor. "Ah. I see you've… so it _is_ his then?"

Minerva nodded. "I'm not in the habit of embracing random birds," she heard herself say vaguely.

Rolanda's expression became tentative and awkward. "Are you all right?" she asked, peering at her carefully. "I mean, I know - well I don't _really _- but it must be hard-"

"I'm perfectly well, Rolanda." There was no sense in worrying her friend unnecessarily, after all. "It has come as a bit of a surprise…" The phoenix stared up at her. "Why has it returned _now? _After so many years?"

The other woman shoved her hands into her pockets and bit her lip. There was a pause in which Minerva did nothing but stroke Fawkes, and then the flying instructor finally spoke.

"You still aren't really over it, are you? Minerva, it's been nearly _eighteen years."_

"Indeed," she replied softly.

She heard Rolanda swallow. "I'm sorry. I just - well, I've never had feelings that strong… If it happened to me, I think I'd just… I'm sorry."

"No, no - you're right. I should have put it behind me by now. Any normal person would have."

"Well," continued Rolanda hesitantly, "you knew the man for simply _decades… _so I suppose it wasn't a normal situation, really."

"No, I suppose not."

"This sounds really callous, especially considering what happened - but I almost wish I'd known someone like that."

"There's still time to meet him."

The other professor snorted. "I doubt it. Especially when all I talk about is brooms and Quidditch."

"All I ever was to Albus was a Deputy. A person to delegate tasks to."

"Don't be silly," scolded Rolanda. "You were friends. If he'd just thought of you as Deputy then he wouldn't have bothered having tea with you or giving you presents for your birthday or - or anything!"

Minerva sighed and stared out across the grounds. Her eyes were drawn to the corner where she knew His tomb to be and she tore herself away. "It really is time for me to move on."

Fawkes crooned in her ear. She shivered: for one wild second it had reminded her of Albus's voice.

* * *

Breakfast the next day was interrupted on several counts. First Eric was called away to have a private talk with Madam Hooch; a conversation that resulted in the boy's face becoming as red as his hair in triumph, and a proud verbal parade of his talents for the benefit of the Captain of the Gryffindor Quidditch team, courtesy of Daniel Glover. Then came the ferocious argument between Benjamin Stubbs and Abigail Lupin: a row that transfixed the whole of Gryffindor table as well as some of the nearby Hufflepuffs, ending only when Professor Hagrid intervened ("If yeh don't sit down right now and stop disruptin' breakfast then I'll have yer hauled up before Professor McGonagall. Is that clear?"). Lastly, and most spectacularly, was the arrival of the post - with two envelopes addressed to 'Brian Potter,' one normal and harmless and the other red and smoking. 

"Oh dear," said Eric, and covered his ears as Albus resignedly slit open the Howler.

"BRIAN POTTER!"

Half of the Great Hall was silenced at once; heads turned and talking stopped. Albus ignored the stares and gazed at the burning envelope, waiting for the storm to pass. Ginny's voice seemed to increase in volume with every word, to the point where it was painful.

"_HOW DARE YOU CHEAT ON AN ESSAY! WE RECEIVED A LETTER FROM THE HEADMISTRESS LAST NIGHT AND YOUR FATHER WAS APPALLED! WE BROUGHT YOU UP TO BE HONEST AND HARD-WORKING! HOW DARE YOU…"_

Albus cringed and twisted his face in distress, hunching his shoulders and shaking his head. The impression of someone severely scolded and bitterly repentant was so convincing as to cause Eric to pat him comfortingly on the back and for Abigail to forget her argument and talk bracingly of 'Howlers being a hard way to learn, but one day he would be grateful, etcetera.' Once the Howler had fallen silent and crumbled to ashes, he reached for the second letter whilst biting his lip with apparent nerves.

_Dear Brian, _

_Your mother is sending a Howler with this letter. Since you were probably forced to open that first, my anger and disappointment is no surprise to you. _

_Four days into the term, Brian. I expected better of you._

_Dad_

"Well at least he's short and to-the-point," said Eric, reading over his shoulder.

Albus folded the letter and put it in his pocket. Had Brian been a genuine boy, he thought, considering his close relationship with Harry, those few lines would have been devastating. He hunched his shoulders higher and bowed his head and spent the rest of the meal staring into space, effecting very weak smiles at Eric's attempts to cheer him up.

As the rest of the school left the hall for the first of morning lessons, Albus hung back, nodding at Eric to go. The Bloody Baron's request had not left his mind from the moment it had entered it. The Slytherin ghost had not even been a vague acquaintance from his school-days, and as Nearly Headless Nick had failed to put a name to his face, he felt the risk of discovery was low. On the other hand, what other reason did the ghost have for contacting him? An idea had occurred whilst reading Harry's gruff letter: perhaps Harry had once had some sort of involvement with the Bloody Baron - probably a negative one given his Gryffindor status - and the ghost wanted to meet the son because of the father? Whatever it was, he was about to find out.

He walked slowly to one of the entrances with the last few stragglers. Soon enough, the Bloody Baron appeared from the crowd, silver robes shining with ghostly blood. Albus looked at the ghost with a frightened expression, knowing full well that most First-Years would be intimidated by the unpleasant sight of the Baron.

"Come with me," the Bloody Baron groaned.

As Headmaster, Albus had known relatively little of the Baron - simply that Peeves would sometimes do his bidding, and that the ghost was one of few words and an unfriendly disposition. He followed Brian's new acquaintance down the corridors curiously, but was unsurprised as the path turned downwards into the dungeons, into an empty classroom. The talk was obviously to be private.

"P-Please," he stammered once they'd halted. "What d-do you want with me? I'm in Gryffindor-"

"I know," came the awful hollow voice of the Baron, and the dead blank eyes bored into him. "I know who you are."

Albus blinked - and then realised that the ghost was probably simply referring to his House. "What d-do you w-want-?"

"I know who you are. You don't need to pretend, Headmaster."

"H-Headmaster?"

"Headmaster Albus Dumbledore."

He sat down on the nearest chair, more surprised than alarmed. "How did you know?"

"I recognised you," the ghost moaned. "I remember you."

"But I never knew you whilst I was at school," Albus protested, running a hand through his auburn hair worriedly. The Baron's knowledge seemed entirely inexplicable. Had his carelessness with the essay somehow filtered down to the ghosts? Had the Baron assembled the jigsaw when he had access to only a few paltry pieces?

"No. But I remember you. You were the Gryffindor who ruined Slytherin's chances. I hated you, for the sake of my House. I heard other rumours also, about you. Things you did."

Albus frowned. He found himself wishing fervently that his past self had been considerably less memorable than he was proving. Patiently, he waited for the next inevitable questions of _why _and _how, _only to find his endurance unpaid. The Baron's blank eyes were wholly incurious; the thought of an animated statue came into his head, uncomplaining, uncaring.

"I request that you do not inform anyone of my identity," he said at last.

"I am Bound to the castle and the head teacher. If Professor McGonagall should ask, then I am Bound to tell."

"Yes, yes, of course - but you will not directly inform anyone in the school otherwise?"

"No, Headmaster."

"Not even members of your House?"

"No, Headmaster."

"Thank you." He got up to leave, but the ghost spoke again.

"Headmaster, your secret is not safe. The old portraits may recognise you. Some of them talk about you, saying you look like someone from long ago."

Albus nodded; the thought had occurred to him. Luckily the solution was relatively easy: a spell that would cloud the memories of most of the portraits in the castle - a mild variant of Obliviation. Performing it that very afternoon seemed a good idea, especially considering what the Baron had said.

"Thank you, Baron. I will deal with that problem today."

Hefting his school-bag, Albus left the classroom, revelling in the unexpected acquiescence of the Slytherin ghost. The mechanical voice called out after him.

"Headmaster, be careful. There have never been two head teachers of Hogwarts in castle at the same time before_."

* * *

_

Months passed. Autumn turned to Winter, after which came Spring, which breathed warmth throughout the grounds, tempting flowers out of the earth and finally healing a certain prize Tantacula to even Pomona's satisfaction. Eric Weasley, new Gryffindor Chaser, triumphed spectacularly against the surprised Ravenclaws, and Abigail Lupin began dating Benjamin Stubbs, to the surprise of everyone around. The school-year settled into its usual grind, and there were no further disturbances in the staff room.

Brian Potter was soon noted to be a very average student, his talents ranging from mediocre to acceptable - despite his initial promise and to the great consternation of Professor Read, who was taunted about the 'academic peak' for at least seven weeks afterwards. He sank into banality, to be remembered rarely and spoken of never again. His subsequent Transiguration essays (eyed suspiciously and coldly by his teacher) were adequate but not worth mention.

The routine of faculty life was only altered slightly, in that the Headmistress would inexplicably request bird-feed from Hagrid and that a careful observer would have seen the nightly visits of a phoenix to the head teacher's tower. Yet Sybil Trelawney continued to request the ejection of Firenze monthly and the relationship between Potions Master and Herbology Professor remained rather cool and distant but warmed as the Tentacula's 'condition' improved.

Such a general mood of content made the Headmistress, armed with her new comfort, feel rather at odds with the Sorting Hat - the tip of which regularly twitched, as though the mind inside was infuriated.

* * *

**A/N: I can't believe this. I'm angry at my own fic. I want to apologise for several things. A) This chapter. I assure you the Slytherin ghost does have a point. B) This fic in general. Where's the meat? I swear it's coming. I promise. **


	12. Generosity

**A/N: Thank you everyone for your lovely, encouraging reviews! It certainly brightened my day and no mistake. Hope you enjoy!**

**IMPORTANT ANNOUNCEMENT TO AVOID CONFUSION:**

**Erin Weasley has been renamed Eric. I'm a twit and only just realised that Erin's a girl's name. Could've sworn it was a boy's too but Babynames has authority on the issue. After uploading this, past chapters will be updated.

* * *

**

The Easter holidays arrived, alternately marked with rain and sun. The holiday week saw a mood of tranquillity and snatched relaxation descend upon the castle; many students had gone home for the chocolate-dominated festivities, and the OWL and NEWT students seemed to disappear almost from existence, retreating to the Common Rooms to cram in sessions of belated revision. The faculty took a collective deep breath in preparation for the exams - harried-looking teachers could be seen flopped in the staff room, clutching cups of tea to themselves with the determination of people who knew that the peace wouldn't last long. The corridors became empty, the Great Hall's size emphasised by its lack of incumbents. The Hogwarts Headmistress was disturbed less and less for business, instead Rolanda and Poppy forced Minerva down from her office and outside. 

"Come out and enjoy the sunshine," Poppy said repeatedly.

Yet the sunshine was fitful, soon surrendering to the rain clouds. More than once, picknicking faculty members were forced to beat a hasty retreat, rushing to cover over food and fold up blankets. Minerva was, however, not unhappy to sit in the staff room or in the office. Periods of loneliness never lasted long as either friend would soon appear in the doorway and drag her down "for some company."

Thursday afternoon of the Easter week saw her in the office writing a long letter to Eleanor Reeves. Really, she thought fondly, such a waste of parchment was hardly justified: the letter was about both nothing and everything - yet Eleanor would lap it up and send an equally long reply back, again about nothing and everything. The joy of distant, reciprocated correspondence had absorbed her for a few hours before there was a knock on the door.

"Enter," she called, expecting either Rolanda or Poppy - or even Filius, who seemed to delight in pottering around the office nattering about all the jokes he'd ever heard. The door opened, and there was a marked silence.

Rolanda's entries were manifest with cheery greetings, Poppy always made some summary statement regarding her health, a topic that seemed endlessly fascinating to the Healer, and Filius squeaked whenever he passed through the doorway. The person who had just entered, however, merely hovered and said nothing. Curious and surprised, Minerva looked up from the letter.

Aberforth Dumbledore stood in the doorway, scowl in place, clutching a parcel to his chest. The scraggy grey beard was as tangled as ever, the hair as unkempt, the robes patched and worn, the bristling eyebrows lowered. Minerva stared at him.

"Aberforth," she said blankly. The old wizard hadn't visited since before the school-year had started - and, given that encounter, she hadn't expected him to do so again.

"Professor McGonagall," he muttered, frowning and sitting down in the seat opposite with the attitude of waiting at a dentist's. The smell of goats drifted across the desk.

Minerva waited, trying to disguise her astonishment with a prim, expectant expression. She wanted to ask for the reason for his visit, but her last attempt stood out painfully in her mind. The most likely reason was out of pity, or perceived duty - hadn't he said something to that effect last time? Yet there was no point in offending him by asking, so she simply watched him from behind her horn-rimmed spectacles, waiting.

"You are well?" he growled at last, voice deep and throaty.

"Very well, thank you."

"Good, good."

"I suppose the Hog's Head is very busy around this time of year."

"Busy enough, busy enough."

"Hagrid sometimes goes there. His favourite is the Redcurrant Rum."

"Yes, men of his type tend to like that."

She resisted the urge to sigh. This conversation was turning out to be a repeat of the last. She opened her mouth to made a pointless, polite enquiry into his own health when Aberforth suddenly thrust the parcel at her, as though trying to hand over something both dangerous and undesirable.

"This is for you."

When she failed to take it, he dumped it on the desk and sat back, glaring at her. Shocked, she fingered a corner of the brown paper. A present? From _Aberforth?_

"What-"

"It's for you," the old man said, almost defiantly. His face was hard, unreadable. "It's nothing important."

"Nothing important?" she repeated.

"No. Just some old junk."

"Some old junk?"

"Don't parrot me, woman!" The blue eyes blazed with sudden anger, the lines in his face deepened.

"Aberforth…" Minerva said disbelievingly. "There's no… obligation for you to-"

"There isn't, is there?" Each word was weighted, suggesting obligation in every syllable. The glower increased in intensity.

The Headmistress stared at the parcel. _Nothing important… some old junk… obligation. _A confused anger shot through her chest.

"I don't need charity," she whispered.

The old man's frame stiffened. "You aren't a beggar, are you?"

"Most certainly not."

"Then it's not charity! Don't you expect it, either!" he snarled.

"I expect nothing of you!" she snapped. "Your visits are completely incomprehensible. You informed me last time that you 'detested this blasted place' and now you decide to make a gift of some of your 'old junk!' I think I would much rather opt out of your _generosity_, Mr Dumbledore."

She expected him to stand and storm out; instead he remained seated and silent. The scruffy bearded jaw tightened and face became cliff-like, the eyes chasms.

"I do detest this blasted place," he said harshly.

"Then you may leave."

"I do not detest _you."_

A cloud passed over the sun outside. The office darkened and then lightened; the first drops of rain began to beat against the window panes. A raven gave a sharp cry and then fell silent. Inside the tower, several of the portraits opened their eyes; the fake snores ceased. A barely perceptible shiver passed around the painted former head teachers, as though a ghost had glided through the wall. The tone of the last speaker's voice hung in the air: significant, heavy, cracked with unexpected emotion.

Minerva looked away and down at the parcel, ears ringing. _Impossible, _chanted her brain. _Impossible, impossible, he can't have meant it in that way-_

She sensed him stand up, the chair scraped back. Her hands went forward without any conscious intervention and seized the brown paper, ripping it apart. The rustling dominated the room, the castle, the whole world. The footsteps towards the door stopped.

An embossed book sat on the desk, a rich deep purple in colour and edged with gold. The front bore no title, but had instead the gold-traced design of the outline of a phoenix, breathing expense. Dazedly, she flipped the book open - and froze.

Albus grinned up at her, Fawkes on his shoulder, his joy limited only in the constraints of a photo. Another photo underneath showed the former Headmaster at his inauguration ceremony, shaking hands with a nameless official whose presence was entirely eclipsed the man standing next to him. Blue eyes twinkled, spectacles gleamed. His innate cheerfulness and innocent genius seemed to emanate upwards from the page and hit her in the face.

She turned more pages, stunned. He winked and smiled from every side. Certain images stood out at her - that of Albus standing next to her in a picture of the Hogwarts staff, looking as though it had been cut from the overseas prospectus, that of Albus dancing with her at the Yule Ball of 1994, beard and hair shining from the lighted candles hovering overhead, that of Albus sitting at the centre of the newly-founded Order of the Phoenix… Each photo had writing beneath it - clumsy, poorly-formed writing, as though the writer was not used to applying a pen to anything, the words misspelt and simplistic. 'Albus with proffesors.' 'Albus at Yool Ball.' 'Albus fownds Order.' 'Albus with Fawkes.' The entries were dated and appeared to be in chronological order - but backwards, starting with the most recent photos and most likely ending with the oldest.

Minerva felt the blood leave her face. She looked up at Aberforth, shaken. The album was expensive, the photos carefully arranged and ordered, the labels hand-written… The gift was staggering.

Aberforth was looking narrowly at her, with a somewhat bitter expression. He took a step backwards when she looked up, as if to leave, and aimed his eyes elsewhere.

"Thank you," she said breathlessly. "Thank you. You did not pay for this… you did not do this… all by yourself?"

He grunted. "Found a load of old photos. Scrounged around a bit… thought you might like it."

"I do. More than I can say."

"Really?" The blue eyes locked with hers.

"Yes. This is the best gift I have ever received… and the most sensitive… the most-" Minerva cut herself off, speechless. What did it mean?

The immovable face twitched.

"Well, I'll be going then."

"Thank you," she whispered again.

"It's nothing," he muttered huskily, sounding angry once more, waving a hand as though swatting a fly. "It's not worth a damn thing."

The door opened and shut: Aberforth was gone. Minerva stared at the front of the photo album, feeling the phoenix design being seared into her brain. A small printed label near one corner modestly informed her that the design was 'specially customised by Lancing Special Deeds Ltd.' Why, she thought dazedly. Why go to all the trouble? What did it mean?

_I do not detest _you.

She buried her face in her hands. It was too early to examine her emotions, too early to understand what had happened. The portraits broke out in a cacophony behind her.

"What a thoroughly undignified fellow," Phineas Nigellus commented.

"By Merlin! How exciting!" Dippet laughed.

"I do declare the man holds our Headmistress in some esteem," said Derwent delicately.

"'Some esteem?'" repeated Everard, grinning. "Well, he said he did not hate her-"

Dippet gave a roguish wink, an action that looked entirely foreign to the frail old wizard. "A knight in shining armour!"

"I would hardly call him that," sniffed Phineas. "The man looks like a doormat. I wouldn't have let him in-"

"Isn't it a bit ironic, though?" Everard said vaguely. "Him proclaiming his feelings with a photo album crammed full of his brother?"

"That's enough!" Minerva heard herself say. "There is no need to leap to conclusions."

She got up and walked over to the window, watching the rain smear the dirt off the glass. Aberforth's gift sat on the desk behind her like a murder weapon, screaming suggestions. _Proclaiming his feelings? _No! He was happy with his goats - and all he had said was that he did not _detest _her-

The Headmistress took the album with her to the private chambers, to remain transfixed by the first two pages until exhaustion forced her to bed. Meanwhile, the portraits whispered, argued and 'leapt to conclusions,' with half of the paintings deciding that the old wizard was bound to "sweep the Headmistress off her feet, a rose in his hand and a serenade on his lips" and the other half declaring him to be an "asexual madman, as incapable of feeling as Phineas."

"Charming," the former Headmaster muttered.

* * *

"Brian!" 

Albus opened his eyes to see Eric's concerned face inches from his own. Blinking, he pushed his head back into the pillows. Eric blushed and withdrew, allowing him to reach for his spectacles and push them up his nose. Brian's bedroom, decked cunningly in Chudley Cannons posters, sprang back into focus.

"Sorry to shout in your ear like that," said Eric sheepishly, seated back on the camp-bed Harry had conjured for him the night before. "You were having another nightmare."

Albus sighed and smiled at him reassuringly, sitting up. Now that he looked around properly, he could see fading stars through the gap between the bedroom curtains. Dawn's symphony of birds had seemingly just started and Eric was blinking sleep from his eyes.

"I didn't wake you up?"

"Well - not really. I woke up on my own and looked up to see you tossing and turning like mad."

"Oh. Thank you for waking me up, then."

"S'alright."

Eric smiled encouragingly at him. Albus suppressed another sigh. It was April, yet the atmosphere between the boys remained awkward, punctuated by reassuring nods and tentative enquiries. Unsure as to how to act, he had made Brian shy and retiring, saying little, willing to let others do the talking. It had seemed the wisest course of action, as more than once he had said something that seemed out of place or out of generation. Several times Albus had fallen back into his whimsical, decorative way of speaking - something which Harry and Ginny had treated as normal and just a part of Brian, but seemed less acceptable in the company of other eleven-year-olds.

Most of his year - at least, those who had spoken to him - regarded him as a bit odd. He suspected that they themselves couldn't explain it; there was, as he'd heard someone remark, "just something kind of weird about him." Only Eric talked to him regularly, having apparently gotten the impression that Brian was merely extremely coy, and determined to bridge the gap between himself and his mysterious uncle. Mark Scott and Daniel Glover both liked Eric Weasley, and so they were forced to tolerate Brian. Mark continued to think him too pompous to speak, whilst Daniel had fallen into the habit of ignoring him. Even Cal Smith had taken a few steps from outside of his shell and was showing more social intelligence than Brian.

From an entirely practical point of view, Albus felt that it was for the best. The more people kept Brian at arms-length then the less they could discover, and it placed his acting abilities under less strain. Yet the emotional aspects of it all were more complicated. Harry's sensitive proximity to his son had soon meant that he'd picked up what had been left out of the weekly letters home.

_Dear Brian, _

_You certainly sound as though you're enjoying yourself! Glad to hear that you don't find your teachers too awful - though Professor Read does sound very irritating. I agree that Slughorn does come across as very materialistic, but I can assure you that he's relatively harmless, compared to Hagrid at least. _

_How is Hagrid? Do you visit him at all? You should; I used to visit him a lot in my school-days and I'm sure he'd like a chat with you. _

_Who do you talk to? You haven't mentioned your friends or the rest of Gryffindor yet. Feel free to invite people over for Christmas. _

_Harry_

_Dear Brian,_

_I think you'll just have to bluff your way through the History essay. I'm afraid I don't remember anything from Binns's classes at all; I usually went to sleep. I'm surprised he's still there - but I suppose they're stuck with him forever since he's a ghost. _

_Yes, I did manage to catch Crabbe. We cornered him in a small village in Kent, running a racket in stolen goods. I promise to give you a blow-by-blow account in my next letter, it was very exciting. His son had been covering for him all these years. I can't say how much this means - only three Death Eaters left in the world. I'm sorry, I'm rambling about the war again, aren't I? Thank you for humouring me and pretending to find it interesting. _

_You know, you were perfectly welcome to invite your friends over for Christmas. Come to think of it, you haven't told me about them, yet. _

_Must dash!_

_Harry_

_Dear Brian, _

_Ravenclaw vs. Gryffindor? I hope you're carrying the Gryffindor pride high, Brian. I have to say that I'm not surprised at all to hear about Eric Weasley - the Weasleys and their brooms are as one! Glad to know I pipped him to the post as the youngest in a century, however! _

_Do you talk to Eric? You still haven't said a word about your friends. I assume Eric is one because you devoted a paragraph to him in your last letter. I hope you've made some good mates. _

_Harry_

So the letters had continued, each one becoming more pronounced in worry. Harry and Ginny would undoubtedly become alarmed if they saw neither hide nor hair of someone who could be called 'Brian's friend.' He had resignedly written back about Eric and then endured the inevitable: _You're welcome to invite him over. _Still uncomfortable with the level of acting that was required for the one-on-one interaction that would occur if Eric came over, he had dodged the insistent invitations - until Eric had asked himself.

"One day, can I meet your dad, Brian? He sounds really cool."

Albus strongly suspected that Eric had been force-fed tales of Harry by Bill and Fleur. The image was all too easy to call to mind:

"'E dived into the water and saved 'er, when she was not even 'is 'ostage, Eric. 'E is wonderful. _Il est incroyable et un defeater de mal. Un héros!" _

At first he had been inclined to create some excuse - but the test couldn't be avoided forever. If Eric could stay with him for a few days, the last half of the Easter holiday, without picking up on anything strange at all, then his pseudo-identity could be viewed as secure. If a canny young person the same age as Brian suspected nothing, then it was unlikely anyone else would.

"Was it the same dream?"

Albus firmly returned himself to the present. The nightmares involving Snape occurred every now and then - enough to attract the attention of Eric and alert him as to their regularity. The former Headmaster assumed that the nearness of the Astronomy Tower and the location of the betrayal had triggered the dreams, but an innocent explanation was needed to satisfy the other boy. Thus the Dark Elephant had been concocted.

The idea had been totally random, improvised on the spot, but it was easier to pretend that it was the same basic nightmare then create a new one every time. Eric's lips twitched whenever it was mentioned and Albus himself derived some amusement from the concept - dream-Brian was involved in a lengthy fight against the Dark Elephant, who would pursue him through various fantastical landscapes plagued by banana-peel, malfunctioning broomsticks and a talking owl. Further embellishments were added each time.

"Yes," he said - and launched into an explanation of how the Dark Elephant had chased him into Professor Read's office, thrown the teacher out the window and crushed several of Hagrid's giant cabbages to pulp.

"Sounds terrifying," laughed Eric - who then gulped and looked apologetic. "I mean-"

"Don't worry. I find it hilarious too, once I've woken up. It's only whilst I'm dreaming it that I'm frightened."

"Oh. Okay then." The other boy brightened. "I was too tired to mention it last night - but I take it you're a Chudley Cannons fan?"

The orange posters screamed at them from every surface. "Yes."

"Our Uncle-"

"-Is the best player in the universe."

Eric grinned and flushed, as if Ron was his personal property. "I've heard he's thinking of retiring soon. He says the Bludgers are getting to him."

"Yes, they tend to do that."

"Is it time for breakfast yet?" Eric's tummy gave a loud rumble. "Sorry!"

"No, I'm hungry too. Let's see whether my parents are up."

Albus got up and tip-toed out onto the landing, eyes on the doorway next to Brian's room. Eric hovered outside as he poked his head in, smiling wryly at how he had once done the same as a genuine preadolescent. In the dimness, he could make out the huddled form of Ginny - but the other side of the bed was conspicuously empty. Harry wasn't there.

Frowning, he withdrew his head and shook it. "Mum's there, asleep - but Dad's gone."

His friend raised his eyebrows meaningfully. "He must have been called out."

"Probably - though it must be quite an emergency if he's needed this early."

"Doesn't that happen often then?"

"Only once before. I know they were looking for Amycus…"

Eric's expression turned to one of impressed puzzlement. The boy leaned forward on his toes, obviously eager for news of dramatic chases and fights. "Who's he?"

"He was a Death Eater during the war," Albus said, wincing at the memories that arose. That particular dark wizard had been present up on the Astronomy Tower at the time of Snape's betrayal. Pushing down that depressing thought, he continued talking as they headed downstairs to fix breakfast. "Apparently he ran away during the final battle. They've been searching for him ever since - and I know that they got some sort of lead a few days ago."

"Does your dad tell you everything that happens with the Aurors?" Eric asked as Albus prepared cereal.

"No," he replied, making his voice sound frustrated and impatient. "He only tells me things _after _it's all over, and he won't even tell me how he defeated Voldemort. He says I'm too young."

The frustration at that last point did not have to be faked. To be the leader of the forces of light, to found the Order, to coordinate the resistence and search for the Horcruxes - and then to be denied knowledge of the fall of his enemy - was agonising. Harry had talked seriously of Horcruxes, determined to impress on Brian their evil and corruption, but then had shut his mouth firmly and refused to open it any further on the subject, saying that he did not want Brian "upset about things he didn't understand." For the first time, 'Brian' had drawn close to arguing with his father - only to be softened by Harry's emotions.

"One day I promise I'll tell you everything," Harry had whispered, his back to him. "I don't know how, but I swear I shall. I'll leave nothing out - if need be, I'll write it down and you'll find out that way. You're an intelligent boy, Brian, but you're far too young. I don't want you upset by things that happened a long time ago."

"You don't have to tell me everything," he'd replied softly, desperately. He didn't want to know the 'everything' Harry was talking about - not the feelings, not Harry's personal painful struggles - information he had no right to, especially when technically living under a false identity. Information that could only pain him. "I justed wanted to know… the basics."

"One day I'll tell you. Not now. All I'll say now is that the one thing the war taught the world was that trying to become immortal is wrong. Nobody lives forever. Once someone dies, they're gone."

Except me, he'd thought.

"That sucks," Eric said. Albus shook himself, trying to gather his scattered thoughts and focus on the present. "But at least he tells you some of what happens."

"I guess so."

_CRACK! CRACK!_

Eric dropped his bowl, sending milk and frosted flakes spraying over the floor. A man and a woman had Apparated straight into the kitchen and appeared mere feet away. The woman Albus recognised at once to be Tonks, her hair bubblegum-pink but her eyes set in dark circles of weariness. The man was a stranger but looked around the kitchen as though it was familiar territory.

"Oh my goodness! Sorry!" Tonks exclaimed, seeing the boys. She aimed a small smile at Albus. "Wotcher, Brian! Up early, aren't you? Sorry to Apparate straight in like this but time's running short! Could you go and wake your father up for us?"

"He's out. I looked in and he wasn't there."

The other man, evidently also an Auror, cursed. "Damn! He must have been tipped off about the decoy!"

"Don, you get to the Ministry. Hopefully he's found out it was just a distraction by now and has gone back to base. I'll get back to Hogwarts-"

"Hogwarts! Has a student been harmed?" Albus heard himself demand authoritatively. He found himself stepping forwards, out of Brian's character and into his own.

Tonks and the man known as Don blinked at him. The Matamorphmagus scratched her nose and nodded at the man. With a _crack _he was gone and the remaining Auror turned back to the two boys.

"Can't say much, Brian. Let's just say we've received evidence that someone's on their way to Hogwarts, probably with nothing good in mind. You may as well tell your mum that Harry won't be back for some time - this is big. Get all the juicy bits from your dad later, okay?"

_CRACK!_

Albus was left staring at empty air. Both curiosity and worry peaked, he sat down in the nearest chair, cereal forgotten. It seemed strange that the whole Auror Department should be driven into action by a single individual, and it made him uneasy. How he longed for his old powers and body, so that he could go and get to the bottom of things himself! It was the first time any sort of emergency had occurred since the war - and now, here he was, forced to be a passive element.

"Blimey..." said Eric, shocked.

* * *

Aroused at an unholy hour, Minerva descended the flights of stairs with haphazard precision, walking-stick tapping on the ground with every harried step. Loud voices, among them Filius's high-pitched squeak, floated up to her from the Entrance Hall. As she approached the last flight of stairs the sources of the noise came into view: a group of Aurors, two speaking urgently to the Deputy Headmaster and the others prowling around, wands out and faces grim. The sight snapped the Headmistress to attention, and made the walking-stick tap faster. 

Filius and the Aurors turned around as she descended towards them - one even pointed his wand at her. She shot a glare at the Auror in question and swept towards Filius.

"Really!" squeaked the miniature wizard indignantly. "I don't see the need to be cautious against the Headmistress!"

"Higgins, put your wand down," barked a familiar voice. Kingsley Shacklebolt shook his head despairingly and nodded an apology.

"What is going on?" she demanded, deciding preliminaries could wait. "Why have the Aurors been summoned?"

"I'm afraid we weren't summoned; we were forced to come," Shacklebolt said wearily. "We have reason to believe that an ex-Death Eater is on his way to Hogwarts to rendezvous with another-"

"Another? You mean to suggest that _another _ex-Death Eater is lurking somewhere near the school?"

"That's what we've been led to believe. As you can see, we're on full alert. Once the Chief Auror gets here-"

Minerva glanced at the prowling mass of Aurors. "Why so many? Surely two individuals can be dealt with with less than the whole of the Auror Department?"

"Forgive me, Professor McGonagall, but there's also reason to believe that there could be more than two dark wizards involved."

"Some sort of gathering?" she asked, with growing alarm. The thought of sitting and writing letters in her office whilst outside a gathering of darkness occurred-!

"Let's not exaggerate the situation," another Auror, a blonde-haired woman, said in a reedy voice. "There are probably just two, but there's a _risk_ of more."

Other voices broke in and there was a collective surge of hands to wands as Tonks appeared in the Front Entrance, her own at the ready. Filius squeaked in surprise and leapt backwards, treading on an Auror's foot - the owner of which swore and dropped his pocket Sneakoscope with a splintering crash. Minerva felt herself becoming irritated by the whole affair.

"-The problem is, he's such a focus for Neo-Dark propaganda-"

"-Amycus's choice of direction is certainly worrying - and the fact that he's made it known-"

"-More than enough motivation, Brian Potter-"

"-Neo-Dark? Bloody fools, getting Dark Mark tattoos for fun-"

"-Ministry will panic if it's more than just him; wouldn't look good for Hawkins-"

BANG!

The cacophony was silenced; Harry Potter stood beside the large double front doors, having just slammed one shut. Minerva watched the transformation of the remembered boy and quiet young man into Chief Auror with fascination; Harry was stepping forwards, his face drawn but his look intense, giving commands and soaking in proffered information like a sponge. There was a distinct air of authority about him: the scar on his head a badge of honour and his posture tensed and powerful like a great cat's. The Headmistress had occasionally wondered why he continued to work as an Auror; wasn't Harry thoroughly fed up of battling dark wizards? Hadn't the war been enough? She questioned it no longer; it was plain to her now that he lived for it, allowed his soul to come to the surface through his job.

"Professor McGonagall," he said, nodding politely at her, expression severe. There was fire burning in those emerald eyes, a fire both hungry and fierce.

"What is going on?" squeaked Filius confusedly as the Aurors moved towards the front doors. "_Who _is Amycus meeting?"

"Someone who might be a focus for all the remaining dark elements, Professor," the Chief Auror answered, marching across the Entrance Hall.

"Who?" Minerva asked.

Harry looked at her levelly. The fire roared higher, demanded sacrifice.

"Severus Snape."

* * *

**A/N: REVIEW! Now, as you may have been able to tell, I've spent the last few days having no life but this fic (tut, tut). Unfortunately, my gran suffered a heart attack last night, meaning that I'm being carted off to some relatives for a few days. This means that updates will be delayed for at least that amount of time... possibly more due to guilt over lack of revision, homework, etc. But stay tuned!**


	13. The Dark Manifesto

**A/N: Sorry for the wait, folks. Thanks for all the concern about my gran, who seems to be relatively okay right now. As for the whole 'Eric' business - ah well, never mind. I can't be bothered to change it back, so he's stuck as Eric now. On we go!**

* * *

The Aurors dispersed, separating into three separate groups at the Chief Auror's behest. The grounds were pitch-black and the wind cutting, ripping through cloaks like a dozen freezing knives. Harry's eyes locked with Shacklebolt's and Tonks's; something emotive and solemn seemed to pass between them. The moon was not bright enough to cast shadows, yet the silhouette of the Astronomy Tower filled the grounds, reminding him, reminding them all. 

"Shacklebolt, take your group outside the grounds," Harry ordered, his voice rising and falling with the wind. "Detain anybody going in or out. Tonks - you and your lot search the grounds themselves. I'll be heading into the Forbidden Forest with the rest. If there's the slightest sign of movement, Stun first and ask questions later. Got that?"

There was a collective cry of assent, and the other two groups disappeared, the Aurors melting away into mere whispers and tramping feet. Harry eyed the shapeless mass of trees warily as the wind dried the back of his throat, and then gestured quickly. The cloaks around him flapped as their owners manoeuvred themselves into formation and the search began.

Tree trunks reared ominously around them; Harry was forcefully reminded of his first visit into the Forbidden Forest - which had also seen his first encounter with Voldemort since his parents' deaths. Tension electrified his muscles and impatience bit at him. Tonight was the night that an innocent death would be avenged-

_Avenged? _piped up a small voice in his brain. _What happened to flinging him in Azkaban? Avenge?_

Yes, thought Harry savagely. Sirius had proved that Azkaban could be escaped from and the lack of Dementors meant that the prison was no longer sufficient punishment. As for ethics, Snape had waived his right to any ethics-

Sirius's wasted, serious face flashed before him. "_I would say he became as ruthless and cruel as many on the Dark side."_

He shuddered. But that wasn't the same, was it? Crouch had used Unforgiveables against Death Eaters, had denied them trial-

_Avenge, though? How am I to do that without Avada Kedavra?_

It just wasn't the same, he told himself firmly. Snape had killed a man who had put his trust in him, who had defended him until the end. Snape was far more guilty than any of the Death Eaters Crouch had acted against, for they had never become double-agents… The Dementors had still been there, back then; Azkaban had been hell for those who deserved it…

CRACK!

He halted. Somewhere nearby, a twig had been trodden on.

Another gesture froze the Aurors. His ears strained. Again-

CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!

The sound of crushed undergrowth was growing louder; someone was moving towards them without attempting to conceal their approach-

Higgins, the youngest and most nervous, surged forwards.

"STUPEFY!"

Red stung Harry's eyes. There was the swishing sound of a shield being erected, and a _ping _as the spell hit. Scarlet flashed away into the bushes, illuminating a raised walking stick-

"HOLD FIRE!" the Chief Auror bellowed. Someone let out a cry and wrenched their wand upwards, away from the target. Crimson flame burst upwards into the sky; for a second everything was bathed in red light-

"Professor McGonagall!" he snarled.

The silhoette of his old Head of House fuelled his fury: not only had she foolishly wandered into a high-alert situation but her presence had probably also caused any Forest inhabitants to be alerted to their existence. Who could have missed the red flare in the sky, announcing their position to anyone watching? Snape had quite possibly Disapparated during that one, vital second. For a minute he was speechless, doubting his ability to say anything without sounding rude.

"Er… sorry," Higgins whimpered.

Harry cleared his throat and spoke coldly, bitterly. "What are you doing here, Headmistress?"

Her crisp voice echoed angrily back at him out of the dark. "I was under the impression that it was a duty of mine of investigate possible hazards to students, Mr Potter."

As his eyes became accustomed, he could see her gaunt face mere feet away, fixed into an expression of incensed determination. The sight was infuriating.

"That is the job of the Auror Department," he snapped, struggling to keep his voice low. "We best work without interference from members of the public-"

"Mr Potter, I was part of the resistance movement against Voldemort before you were born! I do not appreciate being labelled as 'a member of the public!'"

"With all due respect, Professor, this search is suspended until you return to the castle-"

The green eyes flashed and the lips went thin as the face around them hardened - but the sharp voice cracked. "You are not the only one who knew Professor Dumbledore."

Harry clamped his jaw shut. The gale howled past the branches above, rustling the leaves. He could sense the other Aurors watching the scene uneasily, and his anger grew. Yet, he realised, the Headmistress was sharing the thoughts that had just passed through his head, was feeling the same desire for revenge. For the first time he wondered how long Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall had known each other, how long they had been friends before Snape performed his treachery. He felt his glare lose its power.

His hand signalled; the Aurors moved silently on. Minerva McGonagall's walking stick soundlessly impacted on the ground and her hobbling shape passed him. The wet glint of her eyes was aimed at him coldly; his face twitched. He stared an apology at her and the glint lost its coldness.

They continued, ears and fingers numbed by the icy gasp of the wind. Silence rested on them, becoming heavy and intolerable. Some of the Chief Auror's anticipation was being picked up by his subordinates; hands clasped wands more tightly than usual, eyes squinted more fearfully into the night. Harry found himself halting his breathing in order to listen more closely, tensing at every slight noise.

He was so intent on everything beyond the range of his wand that he walked into the back of Higgins, who had stopped abruptly and raised his wand. Harry stumbled and suppressed a curse; could not the young Auror even walk properly on demand? Higgins gazed desperately at him.

The Chief Auror stilled - and the sound of a soft mumbling reached his ears. The others halted, Minerva's head cocked.

"…A fool, a bloody bloody fool," someone was hissing angrily. "The whole thing's been a waste of time, a waste of time."

"Uncle-"

"Shut up, yeh nitwit. Didn't you see that flash a while back? Someone's on the move-"

"Where's the leader?" a third voice broke in. "Where is he? What has happened?"

"Uncle Amycus-"

"Shut up, yeh milksop. Merlin knows, Dent. He's gone and bloody chickened out-"

The other voice grew more urgent, defensive. "Let us meet him. We're all waiting here, Amycus, we've been travelling from miles around-"

"It's useless, I tell yeh!"

Someone made a hushing noise.

"Don't you shush at me, Cal, if you'd stayed where yeh were, just like I'd told yeh, then nobody would 'ave to shush no one! And don't yeh get like that with me, Dent; I'm the one who's been misled-"

"I can be however I like. I don't trust a word you say; just because you're one of the old followers doesn't mean-"

"Don't yeh understand? He's a dead end. He's turned coward on us. Wouldn't even rise to the idea of Brian bloody Potter-"

Harry's fingers twitched around his wand. He could feel the blood thumping in his chest: _his son! _The idea of his son… The urge to run and Apparate back home and check Brain was safe was almost overpowering.

"Don't you dare call him a coward!" another impassioned voice began. Harry couldn't help but note that this person sounded rather young in comparison to the others. "He's our ideal; this news is what we've been waiting for-"

Amycus growled. "He ain't what we thought, Blake - he's a ruddy fool-"

"Be careful," came the whispered reply. "You don't want to get in trouble for criticising the next Dark Lord-"

There was a thump and a cry of pain.

"Yeh wouldn't know a Dark Lord if he danced the can-can in front of yeh! Don't tell _me _what not to do round a Dark Lord; I've served a true one, I've been inspired by his words! This guy's no Dark Lord - he's a loser-"

"They say he killed the leader of light-"

"Aye - he was great then, he ain't now-"

"Uncle Amycus-"

"For the last time-!"

"The Aurors!"

Something that had resembled part of a tree trunk broke away; other dark shapes were disgorged from the bushes. Harry glimpsed a raised wand and brought up his own-

"STUPEFY!" Higgins shrieked.

_Impedimenta! _Harry cried silently. _Protego!_

"CRUCIO!" Amycus's gutteral voice snarled; the Chief Auror saw a lumpy shadow barrelling towards him as one of the Aurors at his side let out a scream-

"INCARCEROUS!" he shouted, aiming his wand at the approaching shadow. Amycus swore as invisible chains whipped at him, dragging him down-

Yells of _stupefy _and _crucio _were echoing around the clearing. Harry's eyes swept to and thro, but he sensed that a certain greasy-haired man was not present, and remembered the Headmistress with a jolt. Recalling the frail form and the hobbling gait he glanced wildly around - but Minerva McGonagall was gone.

"IMPERIO!"

Harry recognised the man called Dent's voice and shook off the curse easily, sending a Blasting jinx in the appropriate direction. Panic began to curdle within his stomach as the Headmistress's form failed to appear-

"AWAY, AWAY!" a woman's voice was screeching. "WE'RE OVER THE BORDER-"

An Auror shouted something that sounded suspiciously like the Anti-Apparition jinx; there was a collective scream of fury from their enemies. At the same time there was a snarl and a spitting noise - a man was clawing at his face, desperately trying to disengage a small tabby cat-

Relieved, Harry dashed forwards. "STUPEFY!" The man fell, the cat still attached to his face-

"MOSMORDRE!"

Amycus's savage face was lit with green as the old symbol flowed out his wand, filling the sky. The sight of the vast skull created a pause in the battle; the Aurors gaped upwards with disconcerted fear and the Dark wizards screeched in joy. The Astronomy Tower passed before the Chief Auror's eyes, as did the imagined picture of a familial house as James and Lily Potter perished…The lumpy man threw off the invisible chains and shot a look of poisonous hatred at Harry-

"What's the matter, Potter? Does it still scare yeh?"

"STUPEFY!" Higgins cried, lunging forward suddenly. Amycus toppled over, the triumphant smirk still fixed on his vacant face.

"SECTUMSEMPRA!"

There was a yowl of animal pain, an unreal caterwaul-

"PROFESSOR!"

The tabby cat was staggering, eyes glazed and blood staining its patterned fur. Harry took a step towards his stricken ex-Professor, but the pointed face of Blake loomed at him from behind a tree, twisted into a malicious grin.

"Cat got your tongue, scarhead? Light can never beat away the darkness! AVADA-"

Harry's wand was swinging upwards - but Blake had stopped mid-sentence, and was simply standing immobile, his eyes wide and startled. Then his arms clapped to his sides and his legs sprung together. His expression of outraged fury froze into rigidity as his body snapped to attention - and he toppled over, like a bowling pin subject to a keen aim.

_Petrificus Totalus, _Harry realised. He shook himself and dashed over to the tabby, which was spitting blood onto the leaves. Anxiety gripped him as he saw the gleam of a vast volume of blood…

"It's all right, Professor," he murmured, scooping the cat into his arms. The animal arched its back and mewed in agony; he felt blood sluice down his arms…

"It's over, Sir," Higgins was saying in his ear. "They've all been captured. We've got Amycus, his nephew, Dark agitator Dent, a Slytherin student-"

"Enough!" Harry barked. "Have them held at HQ. Identification can take place later. Higgins, you sort out the wounded." The feline in his arms gave a painful cough. He said no more and ran, hoping fervently that the night's struggles were over.

* * *

The sight of Harry - his father - wearily forking spaghetti into his mouth, stopped him in his tracks. The Chief Auror had been gone for the whole morning, leaving even Ginny in ignorance. Tonks's words came back to him: _someone's on their way to Hogwarts, probably with no good in mind. _

Albus descended the stairs two at a time. Harry looked up as he approached, emerald eyes dulled with exhaustion. Ginny upstairs continued her conversation with her thoroughly bewildered nephew, failing to notice her son's sudden exit.

"-Such a shame that you don't know Brian as well as you should - personally, I think your mother's been very possessive-"

"Good afternoon," said Harry, smiling weakly at his son. Ginny's voice stopped; before Albus could respond she had half-flown down the stairs. The red-haired witch bestowed a kiss on Harry's forehead before proceeding to scold him in tones that Molly would have been proud of to hear.

"How long have you been back? Honestly, you disappear without a word for ages and I'm left worried sick-"

Her husband silenced her with a kiss on the lips. Albus waited impatiently whilst Eric rolled his eyes and grimaced at him.

"Dad, what happened?" he demanded. Harry broke off the kiss with seeming reluctance and sighed.

"A real mess," he groaned. "I suppose you want all the gossip, Brian?"

"What anyone hurt?" he asked. His father blinked at his abrupt manner and nodded.

"Yes indeed, I'm afraid. Higgins has lost half an ear, and I know that poor old Shacklebolt got his leg bust up. The worst by far is Professor McGonagall-"

Albus sat down. The blood left his cheeks and the room seemed to spin for a second. The kitchen dropped away, launching him into a void. His stomach muscles clenched; he felt as though an abyss had opened up suddenly before him… _Minerva! _Something had happened to Minerva, and he hadn't even been-

"Brian, are you all right?"

Ginny was gazing at him worriedly as she placed a hand on his shoulder. He nodded and effected a vague grin before turning back to Harry, a leaden ball weighing his chest cavity down. With difficulty, he pushed the images of a bleeding, broken Minerva aside.

Interpreting his alarm half-correctly, his father gave him a reassuring smile. "Don't panic - she's alive, and the Healer's said she's a 'tough old stick.'" His face turned serious. "But I won't lie to you: she's very seriously injured. She got hit by one of Snape's old curses - and, it turns out, right on top of where she got hurt before, during the war."

"One of… Snape's old curses," Albus repeated slowly. Rage bubbled in the back of his throat. Knowing that his face probably reflected it, he looked away and down at his hands, which were twisting in his lap. Taking a deep breath, he forced himself to relax. What had happened had happened, and there was nothing beneficial in agonising over it. There was also no reason for Brian to burst a blood vessel over whatever Snape had done to Minerva, whether directly or indirectly.

"_She's been injured," _the news seemed to return to him. "_Five Stunners in the chest. Won't be out of St Mungo's till the end of the year."_

He still remembered the awful fear that had gripped him at that revelation, the terrible realisation of a horrible possibility… Minerva, _his _Minerva, had been hurt due to his absence - and now the same had happened again.

"Did you catch him?" Eric asked eagerly. "Uncle," he added, daringly.

Bitterness laced Harry's words. "No. No, we didn't. We didn't even find him. Instead we got Amycus plus a load of greenhorn Death Eater wannabes, including a couple of very silly Slytherins who thought that getting Dark Mark tattoos and hanging around with a bunch of criminals would be cool-"

"Really? Who?"

The Chief Auror tapped his nose. "Now, now, Eric. Confidentiality laws, you know. Don't worry, they're getting punished for it. I've never seen Flitwick that angry and I'm convinced McGonagall will expel them - if necessary, from her hospital bed."

"Well," sniffed Eric. "Slytherins, y'know."

Harry laughed and ruffled Eric's hair. "Hmm, well, Slughorn's not _that _bad-"

Albus blurted it out without thinking about it. _Perhaps if he could just be there, just hold her hand-_ "Can I go and visit her?"

Eric gaped at him. Ginny raised her eyebrows and Harry adjusted his glasses, frowning. Albus let Brian bite his lip; the question had hardly been subtle, and there was little excuse for why an eleven-year-old boy who had been shouted at by the Headmistress a mere few days into the first term would even vaguely consider visiting Minerva.

"Erm.. Well… Obviously not until she's recovered somewhat," said Harry. "Er - then afterwards, I, um, don't really see why not."

"Okay," said Albus softly. Brian's face began to flush. "Thank you."

There was a brief pause, before Eric asked another question and the Chief Auror launched into a blow-by-blow account of the night's dealings. Albus listened distractedly, with his head propped on his wrist and his eyes cast downwards. He ignored Ginny's gaze and concentrated on the vision of a green-eyed witch dancing at a Yule Ball that now only existed inside his skull.

* * *

Slowly, the feeling began to ebb back into her body. 

Something huge and weighted was sitting on her chest, crushing her ribcage, causing the bones to pierce her lungs…

Minerva gasped. Spots danced before her eyes. Her chest was a mass of screaming nerve-endings, a centre of pain. Surely what she had just thought was correct, and her breath really had been stopped by her own bones? There could not possibly be anything else to explain the agony caused by inhaling, or the throbbing beating down her sternum.

She blinked, trying to clear the spots. The blinding white of a ceiling came briefly into view, before disappearing again behind a accumulation of purple. The ache in her chest grew worse: perhaps there was something wrong with her heart?

A groan escaped her. She heard someone get up from a chair and sensed a presence leaning over her. Hoping it was a Healer, she groaned again.

"I'll go and get someone," came a gruff voice and the presence withdrew.

_Aberforth? _she thought vaguely. A picture came to her, of the old man presenting her with a book - and maybe his emotions, also. Too much to think about right now, she decided.

She blinked more rapidly; the ceiling returned. Her view seemed to widen outwards, revealing the end of a bed and a blank rectangle of a door. She could see a grey strand of hair resting on the pillow next to her head, and realised that she needed to wash her hair…

"All right, Professor McGonagall, please lie still," someone said authoritively. Through the pain, she felt a small pang of amused irritation - how on earth anyone expected her to do anything _but _lie still was beyond her. She heard a diagnostic spell being mumbled and saw a wand passing over her, igniting as it hovered over her chest.

"Albus," she croaked. The idea of her ever moving again was inconceivable, and she wanted to say his name one last time…

"No it's Aberforth," growled the bedraggled shape of the old wizard from beside the bed. She heard him draw breath to say something else, but the Healer interrupted.

"Okay, Professor. Don't worry about a thing, just relax. Now, I'm afraid you'll be here for at least a few weeks yet - whilst everything is outwardly healed, there _has _been some internal damage. You remember being hit by Stunners about eleven, twelve years ago?"

"…Not senile…"

"Nobody was saying you were, Professor. Well, you were told at the time that there was going to be some vascular and cardiacal weakness there - and I'm afraid the curse you were hit with impacted on the same place. As a result: increased weakness."

The crisp voice was speaking as though reading out of a textbook; Minerva wished she could be left alone. _Increased weakness… _What did it matter? She was an old woman, after all…

"I recommend you don't strain yourself when you're finally let out. Gentle exercise will be acceptable, but you should take some care not to exhaust yourself. You're going to be fine, Professor."

She let out another groan, in order to illustrate the contrary. She heard the door close and then a chair being dragged over to the side of the bed. Aberforth's lined face came into view as he bent over her. There was something odd about his expression that she could not put a finger on… Was that _worry? _Why would Aberforth be worried about her..?

"_I do not detest _you."

Minerva shifted slightly. A wave of pain travelled up her chest and she grimaced.

"Best not fidget for a while," advised Aberforth, in the gentlest voice she had ever heard from him. He held his hands up and she saw that something purple and embossed was being held between them. "I brought this, in case you wanted it. For when you're well enough to sit up, mind."

"You gave me that yesterday," she said dazedly.

Aberforth's grizzled head shook from side to side. "You're a bit behind. You've been filling this bed for over a week." He spoke with a tone of disapproval; Minerva wondered whether it was genuine.

"Over a week," she breathed. Term must have started, she realised. The work would be piling up.

"Flitwick's filling your shoes," he said, as though he had read her thoughts.

"That must be difficult," she muttered. "I'm a size seven and he's only a size three.."

Aberforth snorted, whether from amusement or irritation it was hard to tell. Minerva said nothing more, and the silence stretched. Beyond the door, she could hear people marching up and down the corridor, and the creaking sound of something being wheeled. She began to feel a discomfort not entirely related to her chest: how long had Aberforth been waiting for her to wake up? Had he come and sat beside her every day? No, surely that was absurd… She had simply misinterpreted something he'd said - yet why was he there? Why had he been present to see her open her eyes and groan?

"You are well?" she said at last.

"Very well, thank you."

"Good, good. I suppose the Hog's Head is very busy…"

"…Around this time of year," finished Aberforth, his face creased into an expression of annoyance. "Busy enough, busy enough."

Minerva felt as though she was following some sort of script. Did this ritual have to be followed every time they met? At least this time he'd had the sense not to ask _her _how she was… Distantly, she heard herself say:

"Albus used to go there sometimes. His favourite was the-"

"The Firewhisky, the Firewhisky," said Aberforth impatiently. Was he getting bored of the script too? "Yes, men of his type-"

"You're his brother," she interrupted. "Surely you're both the same type?"

She regretted it as soon as she finished saying it; Aberforth's face had hardened, the blue eyes turning to ice.

"No. No, I wouldn't say so," he growled, bitterly. "I wouldn't say so at all."

She waited. The old man's eyes had narrowed.

"He was a hero."

He didn't say it proudly, or reverently. He said it as though Albus had been subject to some terrible, debilitating disease. Nevertheless, she moved her head gently in a nod of agreement.

"Never could stand heroes."

There was nothing that could be said to this, so she remained silent. Aberforth knew what she felt - why else had he given her such an extravagant, personal gift? The ache in her chest seemed to deepen into her heart. She wished she was alone, so that she could release a few hot tears.

_Self-pity, Minerva McGonagall? _asked part of her brain angrily. _For shame!_

"You'll get better," said Aberforth sharply, more decisively. "You're built like Bessy."

"Bessy?"

"One of my goats. A good, strong build - never ill for long. She's a prize one of mine. Long legs, massive udder-"

He cut himself off. To Minerva's vague amusement, the cheeks behind the tangled beard became rather red. _Long legs and a massive udder indeed…_

"Thank you," she sighed, knowing that a comparison to a prize goat was probably a fantastic compliment from Aberforth.

"Oh. Got a little something for you." His hands came upwards again, this time bearing a small, ornate box.

Minerva felt her body tense. _Oh no. _Surely it couldn't be another expensive gift? His words flashed again into her mind. Was it possible that he really did want to, as Everard had put it, _proclaim his feelings? _With a jolt, she eyed the jeweller's stamp on the box he was thrusting at her. A ring? Her heart thumped - yet the thought of Aberforth proposing was ridiculous, impossible-

Her inner vision conjured up a memory, that of Aberforth standing in her office, filled with rage. "_Don't flatter yourself, woman!"_

Her fingers found the box and undid the clasp with difficulty. Nestled in the paper within was a small gold necklace. A phoenix with tiny rubies for eyes dangled from the end of it as she lifted the chain from the box. Utterly confused, she stared at it. Once again the gift was expensive, and once again the gift was symbolic of the giver's brother. What did it all mean? She knew full well that had any other man given her a present as expensive, she would have suspected that they harboured some affection towards her, but the fact that necklace screamed _Albus Dumbledore _at her when it was given to her by _Aberforth… _Taken aback, she glanced up to see Aberforth eyeing her with a face like a cliff - but with tiny cracks, as though waiting for her approval.

"It's lovely," she said. "Thank you very much. But I cannot allow you to continue spending money on-"

"I shall do whatever I like with my money, thank you very much. I don't see how it's any of your business what I do with my Gringotts account, woman."

With that, he got up and marched off, slamming the door behind him.

* * *

"Jon, stop it! We're in enough trouble as it is!" 

The Slytherin Common Room was thankfully empty for lunchtime, so there was no one else present to hear Ozzy's whinging. Jonathan rounded on him angrily. The Fifth-Year's muscles were tense enough with anticipation without Ozzy's whining putting him on edge.

"Shut up!" he snapped. "Are you a Slytherin or not?"

"None of the others-"

"They're not proper Slytherins!" he spat. "They don't know our history properly. You shut up and do what I say. It's your fault we got caught. If you'd just stayed where you were instead of getting in the way-"

"Jon, I _do _believe it all, I really do," Ozzy moaned, running a hand through his straggly brown hair. "It's just that my mum's going to kill me if I'm expelled - she might kill me anyway-"

"Shut up! So what if we're expelled? We know the truth, it's not our fault if they're teaching us lies! All hail stupid Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, and all the rest of it. Are you forgetting everything we've found out?"

"No," sniffed Ozzy defensively. "But it's all right for you. Your family can easily ship you off to Durmstrang, mine can't."

Jonathan turned away, scornfully. Ozzy, as far he was concerned, wasn't a proper Slytherin either. It was _he _who had educated him, and _he'd _been the one to first get the Dark Mark tattoo - not once, but _three _times, on his arm, chest and back. Ozzy was merely a follower, who just thought that getting tattoos and wearing black made him equal to him, made him a true Slytherin. No, it had been Jonathan who'd pointed out the obvious to him: who said Voldemort was wrong? The school did. Who was in charge of the school? The Order of the Phoenix. It didn't take a genius to see that something was being kept from them.

The rest of their House didn't realise it, though. He sniffed disdainfully. The House had grown weak in recent years, swallowing anything that idiot Slughorn said, and acting as though the war had been inglorious for them - almost as though Voldemort was something to be ashamed of. Only he and Ozzy had responded to the darkness gathering in the Forbidden Forest, and when they'd been caught the rest of the House had ostracised them. His father had educated _him _properly, and had kept an ear open for Amycus's call. He had learnt to pay the old Dark the appropriate respect, and had worshipped the new shadow on the horizon, the new Dark, the Neo-Dark. He had excelled in History of Magic, drinking in the story of Severus Snape with a thirst that excited him.

How did others not see it? How could they be so blind to the fact that Severus Snape was the last great chance, the next orator of the night? Voldemort, the head of the Dark, had been severed, but his right hand remained. That night in the Forest, they had come so close…

"Yes, Mr Blaine?" The hollow voice of the Baron broke in on his thoughts.

Pointedly ignoring Ozzy, he ripped open his shirt. The Dark Mark confronted them all, confronted the truth. "You see this?"

The gaunt form of the ghost gazed at it calmly. "Yes."

"It means I'm like you. I'm a Slytherin, not like the pathetic bunch of losers mucking up the rest of the dormitories. I've read _his _book."

His book! He, Jonathan Blaine, had read Voldemort's own words, written during the war. He had read the most forbidden of all books, the Dark Manifesto.

"Jon, stop," Ozzy's voice intruded.

Ozzy was no longer worth his attention. "You know where Severus Snape is, don't you. I know you must; one of the Prefects told me all the ghosts can sense ex-members of their houses if they're near the castle. I _know _he's nearby."

The stare of the ghost remained blank and impassive. "Indeed I can sense him, Mr Blaine."

"I know you can't lead me to him. You're Bound not to do anything like that. But you can carry a message, correct?"

"Yes."

"Then tell him this from Jonathan Blaine: that at least one of the faithful remains at Hogwarts. Tell him that I will follow him and do whatever he says. Tell him I'll prove my loyalty - mention stupid little Potter Junior to him. What's more, say that I can stir the House into rebellion in his name. It shouldn't be too hard, they listen to anyone who shows a bit of oomph-"

"Jon!" Ozzy's expression was one of appalled fear. "You're not going to-"

"I don't know how you got into Slytherin, you nitwit. You've got no ambition at all."

"Jon, we could get sent to Azkaban-"

"-In the name of the Neo-Dark. Tell him that too. Go on."

The Bloody Baron drifted away. Jonathan turned back to Ozzy with a glare, his shirt still undone and the Dark Mark still obvious. Ozzy stared at the tattoo and gulped. He had been foolish and doubting - and he knew what the punishment was for that. He knelt down and removed his shirt.

Jonathan rolled his eyes and administered the curses in a bored voice. "Crucio. Silencio."

Ozzy's back arched and his mouth opened in a terrible rictus, yet the Common Room remained silent.

* * *

**A/N: This seemed... okay when I wrote it... but... well. I can't write action! Oh and I assure you, no matter how it seems, that the centre of this story is still ADMM. As for the 'Dark Manifesto' - I thought it would kind of Hitler-esque, like Mein Kampf. Finally - sorry, but this story is now ON HIATUS until after my exams. I promise I'll finish it, don't worry!**


	14. Inner Sanctum

**A/N: ... Sorry. Stupid exams and work. Two things to address here: A) Part of the delay was down to a certain person who made me not want to write fanfiction again. The only reason you get my excuses is because I feel readers deserve an explanation. They know who they are and they are the only person I hope does not enjoy this fic. B) In response to the reviews... well I have taken note. Seems I've been overdoing the suspense, yes? Well we're starting something charmingly titled 'Discovery Arc.' Stay tuned! Now to placate you all, a longer chappie than usual.

* * *

**The weekend always saw St Mungo's crowded; it seemed that free time was conducive to all manner of accidents. House elves dashed up and down the corridors, carrying bandages and potions vials, or pushing trolleys weighted with tea and coffee. Eye contact was made seldom and quickly; one's concern was for one's own brother or mother or friend, not for the other tragedies occurring mere rooms away. Nobody noticed the boy with tousled auburn hair waiting outside a ward.

Albus had spent ten minutes pacing to and fro, and had eventually collapsed onto a nearby chair. Brian's young body was slumped against the wall and his eyes were closed, reducing the hospital to sound. His ears strained for Minerva's voice or Harry's return without success.

Three weeks had passed since term had started. They had passed in a blur, punctuated by nightmares or insomnia. Pictures of an expired Minerva slumped back on a pillow continually floated before his eyes. Perhaps his alarm for his friend - _yes, friend, _his brain asserted - would not have been so great were it not for the dire announcements by Flitwick on how the Headmistress had "suffered a relapse" and how she "could easily have been killed." He'd written home constantly, asking when a visit would be possible and pestering the Chief Auror almost to the point of exasperation. Now the time had come.

Harry was regretting agreeing to it, Albus knew. Not only had the visit been extremely difficult to arrange but Brian himself had caused some considerable worry. Ginny had gasped at Brian's appearance and pulled him into a hug. The Chief Auror's eyes had widened in alarm and he'd demanded to know whether Brian had been ill. The question had been raised: perhaps the visit would be too much for him?

"No!" he'd yelled. It was the first time he'd ever argued with his 'parents.'

Then again, he thought now, they'd had a point. Lack of sleep and appetite had made his robes hang more loosely, had whitened his face and made shadows around his eyes. Taking a mental step back, he could almost marvel at the effect Minerva's injury had had on him; he was certain only his wife's death had affected him this strongly. Now his muscles were knotted and tense, holding him against the wall as if gravity had disappeared.

He allowed Brian to let out a heavy sigh. _Relax, _he told himself. He'd tried breathing exercises earlier but Harry had asked him if he was hyperventilating and he'd stopped, not wanting to alarm his father any more than he already had. The Chief Auror himself had now entered Minerva's inner sanctum and was supposedly telling her of his visit. _Too long, my boy. _

A door creaked and his eyes snapped open. Harry was standing outside the ward, smiling at him encouragingly.

"She can see you now. Don't worry her or wear her out, mind."

Albus shook his head dumbly. His body had moved to the doorway almost of its own accord, as though Minerva's presence was somehow sucking him in. Harry nodded at him, the door swung open and shut-

_My dear. _

She was sitting up in bed but was leaning backwards. Her eyes were closed, but her thin face seemed alert, as though she was simply resting her eyes. The sight of that proud profile, the arched eyebrows, the iron-grey locks spreading out over the pillow - all of it held him still and reverently silent, as though the ward was a church. He scanned her face worriedly, and was relieved to note a touch of pink in the cheeks. As his stare caressed her cheeks, a glint caught his eye.

A delicate golden chain was hung around her neck, a ruby-eyed phoenix hanging from it. One hand - weathered now but still shapely - was tilted towards it, and one finger was touching the phoenix very lightly. Now that he'd seen it, he noticed that her whole form seemed shaped around the necklace; her shoulders hunched protectively and her legs under the covers slightly drawn up.

An odd, leaden feeling settled into Albus's stomach. He found himself wondering: who had given her that? When had they given it to her? _Why_ had they? Did that light touch of hers mean that she treasured it?

"_Now, now," _a mental Sorting Hat seemed to say to him. "_We aren't being selfish are we?"_

Selfish! Of course he was being selfish! He shook himself angrily. He tore his gaze from the necklace and focussed it on her face again, once again feeling the relief wash over him. What did a necklace matter when its wearer seemed to be recovering? He stepped forward, a feeling of being hopelessly drawn towards a magnet filling him-

Her eyes opened, their pupils already aimed at him. The clouded emerald only left part of his brain free to wonder if he'd made some small sound that had alerted her to his presence. He halted and stared at her.

"Mr Potter?"

Minerva's face was blank of expression, but Albus was able to detect a small hint of confusion in her voice. Of course, he reminded himself, Brian had no real reason to be there.

"M-Professor McGonagall?"

She frowned slightly and pulled her hand away from the necklace. Then her eyes softened. "Thank you for coming to visit me, Mr Potter. Please, feel free to take a seat." She gestured at a chair, the existence of which had eluded him.

Obediently, he sat. "How are you, Professor?" he managed to ask in a relatively normal voice.

"Getting better. Or so the Healers inform me, anyway."

"When will you be able to come back?"

"As soon as they allow me," Minerva said, her words laced with irritation. "Personally I believe they are keeping me here just to lengthen their bill." Her nostrils flared and Albus felt a small smile come to his face; this was definitely the Minerva he remembered.

She stared at him and Albus found himself looking past her left ear to avoid the searching look she was giving him. His ribcage quivered. Silence reigned.

"May I ask you a question, Mr Potter?"

Albus resisted the urge to say that he would always be available to answer any questions the Headmistress wanted to ask, day or night, and instead translated his thoughts. "Sure, Professor."

"Why have you visited me?"

He felt Brian's face flush. "We were told you were very ill, Professor. All the Gryffindors-"

"None of the other Gryffindors are here, Mr Potter. And I have to say that I was under the impression that I had sufficiently terrified you to merit your dislike rather than your sympathy."

Her pupils fixed him. He found himself studying the small speckles of hazel that rimmed them; the way they seemed to rebel against the encroaching cloud. What excuse would satisfy her? No, she was a goddess whose gaze could never be escaped…

"…Or was I wrong, perhaps?" Her voice had regained that cold edge that had been present in the office. "Perhaps you weren't as terrified as you tried to make me believe."

The rest of her face came into stark relief. "No!"

"No to what, Mr Potter?"

The 'Mr Potter' was irrelevant; a fly to be swatted away. He was Albus again, in the same room as Minerva. "Let no doubt remain. I was indeed terrified…Professor."

"You word yourself oddly, Mr Potter."

"Do I?" The gold of the necklace stung his eyes.

"Yes. And you still have not answered the question. _Why _are you visiting me?"

"Why not?"

Those elegant arched eyebrows rose. Albus saw her fingers twist the chain of the necklance - and then the entire hand enclose it, as if the owner hoped to draw something from it. Minerva drew back slightly, and seemed to survey him anew.

"I trust the House-Elves are still providing food at Hogwarts?"

Albus blinked, confused. "…I believe so, Professor."

"You _believe _so, Mr Potter? You have not been attending meals?"

He suppressed a sigh. The last thing he wanted was a conversation about _Brian's _health. Yet, how typical of Minerva. How typical it was that she, severely injured and bedridden, would care about an underfed little boy. He smiled.

"It doesn't matter, Professor. I've just been a bit ill, that's all."

The hand tightened on the miniature phoenix so that the knuckles cracked. Startled, he looked up to see her face suddenly white and the eyes distant. Her sight was going past him, into darkness-

"Professor!" He lurched out of his seat, but a gnarled hand reached out and encircled his wrist.

"No… no… I'm fine, Mr Potter. Something surprised me, that's all."

"A-Are you sure?" There was no need to fake the stutter; a cold sheen of sweat had engulfed his body. "I'll g-go and g-get-"

"No need, no need, Mr Potter." The colour had returned to her cheeks and she was blinking rapidly. "You just… reminded me of someone, for a moment there-"

Minerva's hand seemed to be the only thing holding him up. The back of his throat went dry. Brian had reminded her of someone? Could that someone possibly be himself, Albus Dumbledore, bearded, white-haired, whiskered? Had she seen the shadow of an old man in a boy's face, had some feature of Brian's resonated? All boys held the shades of old men, but did Brian hold his old man clear enough to see? Was some part of Minerva's mind still devoted to remembering the lines of his face, his mannerisms?

_Goddess, let that be. _

Yet…

The scene had dulled around him. He shot a sideways look at her and then past her, and then at the necklace rampant upon her breast-bone. Had it been the memory of him that had whitened her and made her fall back upon the pillow? Was the memory of him… bad, something to be feared and reviled? His mind was racing now, galloping from woodland to wilderness… Some part of him - that old man whose grasping hand marked Brian's unspoilt face - dug his heels in and wrenched at the reins, protesting that he was going too fast, leaping to unfounded conclusions and upsetting himself unnecessarily.

The word came out, unbidden. "Who?"

Minerva frowned slightly - would _he_ have replied to such a personal question?

"Just a man I knew," she said at last, rewarding him with a glimpse of a divine smile. "Now I'm afraid it is about time for you to be going. But thank you for visiting… I appreciate it."

She had not moved to wave a hand at him or nodded at him to go, but Albus felt the words almost chivvying him out the door. He got up, to mumble a polite goodbye that wouldn't convey anything he felt at all-

The door creaked open. Albus turned, expecting some dour-faced Healer.

The sight of Aberforth stopped him in his tracks. Inside, his heart missed a beat - and kept on missing it, as images swirled around his skull. He glimpsed the tangled beard and craggy face - but then the reality was swept away in a myriad of memories. How could he have forgotten the wire-haired toddler following his older brother through the cavernous halls of Dumbledore Manor? Or the solemn-faced teenager sitting at his side in the Hospital Wing? How could he have forgotten his anchor, his one remaining relative - someone whose mere existence had kept him going all those years?

The old man was glaring at him with stony eyes. No doubt he was wondering who this gaping boy was. But then, Albus remembered with a horrible jolt, he could no longer remember a time when Aberforth had given him a genuine smile. Even back then, in the crowded Hospital Wing of a chaos long gone, the boy sitting at his side had been pensive and sullen, obviously resenting the time spent there. The blood link between them was barely acknowledged; their lives had been spent apart.

_Alone, _his mind whispered. _You were and are alone. _

How he'd longed to be able to talk to Aberforth whenever despair weighted him, or whenever he wanted to double a joy by sharing it. His brother, his other half - the one possible point of understanding in a sea of incomprehension! Yet Aberforth had sunken resolutely away from him, never giving an explanation, never informing Albus of the slight he had so clearly inflicted. He had been left a lonely old man in his office, sitting at his desk and staring into space whenever there came a brief pause in life.

The last time he had seen him - before Snape had cast him off the Astronomy Tower - he had asked. He had never dared to ask directly before; had only dared then because age has a way of making one remember one's roots and family. Family: a wish never granted, a concept that was only embodied in one unwilling person. Yes, he had asked, come straight out with it-

"_Aberforth, why do you hate me?"_

He had shrugged and glared at him for his ignorance. Those blue eyes, which he knew to be the same as his own, had passed through him, leaving guilt as their trail. He had understood then that it was his fault, their estrangement. He had failed to comprehend something.

"_Figure out for yourself."_

Only he had not, and then he had died. Another regret to add to the pile. Another thing to catch him unawares now.

"Aberforth! What a pleasant surprise!"

Minerva's voice shattered the memories and revealed the ancient figure standing before him again. Remembering that he was supposed to be leaving, Albus took a step forward - and halted, convinced his eyes were deceiving him.

A bouquet of roses.

In Aberforth's hand.

Aberforth. And roses. _Red _roses, _luscious _roses, _whole _roses, seemingly _untouched _by goats. Aberforth with roses.

He gaped.

Aberforth felt himself becoming severely irritated. First he had been accosted by House-Elves offering cups of tea in the foyer, apparently unable to take 'no' for an answer. Then he had found that that the lift was out of order, meaning he had had to toil up several flights of stares, attracting odd stares because of the roses. Now that he had finally arrived, it seemed that the Headmistress already had company - in the form of a gormless pre-teen with messy, unbrushed hair. Not that he was particularly well-groomed himself, but this boy did not appear to have made any sort of effort at all. Why was he there? Why was he _still _there after he had made it clear he wanted him to go away?

How Albus had managed to put up with a whole _castle _full of gormless teenagers was beyond him.

Something niggled at the back of his mind, like an itch. The brat seemed somewhat familiar; perhaps he had tried to sneak into the Hog's Head at some point-?

A heady scent assaulted his nostrils. He recalled the roses with a start and a fearful, watery feeling. _Best get it over and done with. _He crossed the room and thrust the bouquet in the vague direction of Minerva, taking care not to look straight at her or look too enthusiastic. Aberforth was not quite sure why this was important, but it was.

"These are for you."

He snuck a look at Minerva's beautiful face. Her face twitched, but the lips turned upwards into a smile. The gold of the necklace below both satisfied and troubled him-

Out of the corner of his eye, the boy jerked abruptly and the blood drained from his face. The sapphire eyes darted from Aberforth to the roses to Minerva and back again several times, each time seeming more disbelieving, more agitated. Aberforth felt the boy's gaze rest on him - and intensify, until it became a lead weight on the back of his neck.

The old man tilted his head back to give another scowl. Wouldn't the brat ever leave?

The boy's visage convulsed with a spasm of fury and hurt, as if he had been slapped round the face. He turned on his heel and marched from the room, back rigid. One hand snatched through his auburn hair. Outside, he was observed to sag suddenly against the wall, remove his glasses and pinch his nose, in the manner of a man surprised to tears.

* * *

Her chest still ached perpetually, walking up the flights of stairs had made her feel light-headed and giddy, and Filius had not had the authority to sign half the papers from the exam board for that year's OWLs, but the fact remained: she was home. Minerva was back in His office again, albeit accompanied by a box of potions that needed regular application and a vaseful of drooping roses. 

Those roses.

The vase was small, and placed at a point furthest from the desk, on top of the bookcase to the left of the door. If she kept her eyes down and focussed on her paperwork, she could almost pretend that it did not exist, or that it had come from a neutral source. If she imagined otherwise, then it would mean that her suspicions had not been proved and that they remained silly ideas in the head of a histrionic old woman.

Yet they were real, irrefutably real. Aberforth had thrust them at her just as the Potter boy was leaving, had casually made an undeniable proclaimation. Unlike the necklace (a constant presence around her neck) or the photo album (she had reached only a quarter of the way through; one picture of Him would be enough to immobilise her for at least half an hour), the flowers did not shriek _Albus Dumbledore. _Regrettably, He had never offered her roses, nor ever even mentioned them. No, Aberforth was not just trying to help to her through her grief but offering something else-

Alone in her hospital bed, after Aberforth had left, she had gazed at them, mesmerised, and shuddered slightly. The reaction had been involuntary and had left her ashamed, but there had been something so passionate, daring and _sexual _about those roses that it was as if she had seen an erotic statue in a street square. Their scarlet dripped blood and fire, their petals were wet with lustful perspiration. The roses were lips men would want to kiss, idylls no woman could live up to. They were forbidden items, taboo in His office. She had the odd sense that the mere presence of the roses was somehow betraying Him.

Thinking of it brought a sinking feeling into her stomach, dragging on her spine. Merlin knew when the last time Aberforth had wooed someone had been - or if he had ever wooed anyone before. How often did such an unapproachable, defensive man offer his heart to someone? How often did that cliff-face crack and reveal something more than bitterness or fury?

A damaged man, her brain said. Most probably damaged by himself. Perhaps that thought was what prevented her from outright refusal or protest.

Hypocrite! Refusing pity from Aberforth, only to offer it to him! And what conceivable right did she have to sit in her lonely tower and declare someone else damaged?

He was lonely too, in his poky little pub. So lonely that he had come to visit her under the guise of duty, so lonely that he had fallen for a woman whose soul remained in the hands of a dead man - but here was chance of Life again; would she be foolish to deny it? The scenario in which she could say no to Aberforth was unimaginable. What expression would be on the weathered face? Would he shout, storm out or fail to accept it?

His sincerity was in no doubt. The doubt lay all on her side. Delving produced no amorous flicker, no warmth at the thought of him. She had half hoped there would be, so that he could be happy and so she could shake off the manacles of Him forever. She had even voiced that idea to Rolanda.

"Manacles?" Rolanda had repeated disbelievingly. "Have you gone off… him?"

"Of course not!"

"And you don't feel anything for Aberforth?"

"No."

"Well obviously you've got to tell him that," her friend had said, as if it was the simplest thing in the world.

Always helpful, Rolanda.

Her stare had drifted up to the roses along with her thoughts. Sighing, she sat back in the chair and dared stretch slightly, wincing at the pain emanating from her chest. Queasiness crept up her throat. Since coming back to Hogwarts, she had felt as though something extra was weighing down her torso and stirring up her gut. Worry, that was what it was.

However, regardless of her health, today was the day to Ward the castle. Having been immobilised over Easter, it had been left till now. Filius had had neither the power or the means to Ward the castle himself; only the head-teacher held that privelege. The roses had been enough to distract her from it but excuses only extended so far.

Slowly, she eased herself up from the desk, glancing at the clock as she did. It was lunchtime - a lunchtime she had spent alone in order to spare her an unnecessary journey down agonising stairs. The perfect time, really. If the castle should tremble slightly, as it sometimes did, no lessons would be disturbed and there would be no complaints from Slughorn over the havoc caused to his precious potions.

The stairs would now have to be confronted. She exited the office carefully, pausing whenever her chest cried a warning and fingering the golden Hogwarts seal at her neck nervously. The twisting staircase dizzied her, trapping her within a coil of stone. The corridors were mercifully empty; a lone student hurried off at the sight of her, apparently alarmed at the thought of a possible scolding. She reached the Fourth Floor without any substantial trouble. The tapestry of a winged boar drew her towards it, the embroidered eyes beguiling her.

"Phoenix Reborn," she whispered, leaning on her stick.

Slowly, the tapestry dissolved, unravelling stitch by stitch, the beast dissolving back into the wood behind it. That wood was carved, ancient, breathing the touch of those long gone, forming a great medieval door that seemed to emanate runes at her; she had only reached the outer level of security but already the strength of what was beyond was almost beating her back.

A pause.

Minerva felt distantly frustrated at herself as her breast-bone shrieked a complaint. Loitering before something so important that the entire fate of Hogwarts rested on it was not only absurd, but dangerous. Yet the fact, the sheer _reality _of what lurked in the chamber behind the door could not be denied - indeed, if ever ground was hallowed then this, surely, was it. How could it not be hallowed when He lay beyond it?

The concept shook her, as it always did. She remained still, but her mind passed through the door and the other layers of barriers, creeping into the chamber engraved forever within her own skull. Mentally she perused its circular form, past the ornate pillars to the centre of it all - where the heart of Hogwarts extended from the floor to the ceiling in one vast artery of magic. The castle's blood ran together with her own, turning the stones around it an unearthly blue. Lesser capillaries - she hated that 'lesser' - sprouted from the bronze sockets in the floor, imprisoning it with bars of different colours-

Oh! Let no one say that He is completely gone! This was her secret, greater even than the dressing gown-

Her mind's eye roved the capillaries one by one, passing over the labels. Livid green for Nigellus, blood-red for Everard. All were here, all lined up, that portion of themselves eternally linked to the castle lined up with the rest: a chronology of helmsmen. All may as well be invisible to her - even the main arterial source - except the purple beam, that splendid beam that surpassed them all. Water gathered in her eyes; a part of Him was there, immortal and unspent. 'Dumbledore,' she knew the engraved letters said boldly, as though they did not care that they had named the greatest of them all.

She blinked and cleared the memory away. Once she had entered, she could linger and feel Him directly.

There came another password, and another, and another. The Founders, even Slytherin, had known their miracle, and their duty to protect it. Few would ever see the inner sanctum she was about to enter.

The door relented, opening to release a blue glow upon the cobbled stones. Moving towards it, a crackle assaulted her nostrils and teeth. The air became thick and heavy, as if echoing the words written into the door: _DARST THOU ENTER MY HEART?_

She more than dared; this heart was His heart, with hers beating beside it.

Blue flickered and dimmed, but the capillaries harnessed her eyes-

-The tapestries of the tumultuous past, the sumptuous oil paintings of Gryffindor, Slythering, Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff, the runes radiating outwards from the core, the locked chest containing those last great treasures of previous millennia, Nigellus, Everward, Derwent, Dippet - insignificant! Closeness and love, they were the core's true guards! That purple, that potent purple…His name transfixed her, so that she did not at first realise that the weight in her chest had increased unbearably, or that weakness was spreading throughout the ancient chamber like a disease-

_Merlin, no. _

Minerva staggered, clutching at her stick only as an afterthought. That rich purple was wavering, leaping towards the blue in the middle - _her _blue - and back again, as though longing to entwine itself. The core itself was flickering, as if about to go out.

Heat stabbed down her sternum. Shock held her still. Magic crackled and whined, the core flickered and thinned to a vein. The other capillaries were wavering too, fading to trickles and shadows. The occurrence was so sudden, so unexpected that reacting sensibly seemed impossible; only one conclusion came to her-

The core of Hogwarts, and her power over it, was dying.

Dying, like Him.

Black was creeping into her sight. Snape came suddenly into her head, smirking in that infuriating way he had had. Dark magic, powerful enough to corrupt the core? The purple danced; the blue dimmed and glowed, blinding her.

"FILIUS!"

The stick was nowhere to be found. Her ribcage seemed on fire.

"ROLANDA! POPPY!"

Gravity-

-And nothing.

* * *

"…No, the last time I was there everything seemed fine-" 

"-The Aurors! Merlin knows what damage has been done-"

"-Never, _ever-"_

"You don't suppose it is something to do with… you know…_him, _out in the woods?"

"-My good woman, panicking is the course of fools-"

"-My good man, do me a favour and _shut up."_

Feeling a strong sense of déjà vu, Minerva groaned. For a moment she was back at St Mungo's, with Aberforth and his wretched gifts looming over her. There was the same crushing pressure on her chest, seemingly the exact same level of pain. The only differences were the voices and the migraine pounding at her temples.

"Minerva!"

Poppy's voice was piercing; Minerva allowed herself another moan. She shifted painfully, and had a vague impression of flapping hands and hushing noises.

"Minerva - oh Merlin, thank goodness - the Healers thought it best you weren't moved too far-"

The slight lifting of one eyelid revealed a circle of anxious faces, ranging from a strained-looking Rolanda to a bewildered Slughorn. The ceiling above them appeared somewhat familiar - the Hospital Wing?

"-Don't you dare move - now-"

"I doubt that is possible…" she croaked in reply. The headache was preventing her from thinking properly, blotting out memory and circumstance. Why on earth was she in the Hospital Wing, surrounded by members of staff as if by angels? Had she had another accident?

"-And don't worry about the core at this moment; some Swedish experts should be reporting back in a little while, Hagrid's gone with them in case there's trouble-"

Blue wavering, purple leaping to and fro. Minerva clamped her jaw against the cry of alarm threatening to burst forth. She looked up at the distant ceiling again, expecting to see ruptures and tendrils of magic weaving their ways into destruction…

"It is a complete mystery!" came Filius's shrill squeak. "I performed a check-up a matter of weeks ago and the core seemed perfectly healthy-"

"Has it ever been _unhealthy?" _Rolanda pointed out.

"Not in recorded memory! Still thank Merlin the quakes have stopped-"

"Quakes?" Minerva asked, daring to move her head slightly.

"Oh yes. We thought of evacuating the students but they ended only a few minutes after they began. Yet there is no way of guaranteeing that they will not happen again!"

"That's why the experts have been called in," Slughorn explained pompously. "It appears there is no one at the Ministry with sufficient experience in this sort of thing - perfectly disgraceful in my opinion-"

The cacophony of voices broke out again. The Headmistress winced, bringing a hand up to massage her head.

"-Well a core on this scale is practically unique-"

"-Definitely something seriously wrong; the Headmistress's seal-"

"Minerva," Poppy said loudly, "it is my belief that a lot of the pain you are experiencing now is due to the problem with the core. Your magic is bound to the core, so I'm afraid pain relief is the only treatment I can give you-"

"What was that about the seal-?" Poppy's face had become blurry and distant. An image of the missing golden medallion superimposed itself over reality rather too readily.

The unwelcome tones of Professor Read answered. "Oh," came a dramatic sigh that made Minerva grit her teeth, "they had to get it off you quick to stop it from burning you; it had gone white-hot, hot as fire, hot as molten metal-"

"Yes, yes," Poppy snapped. "The only reference to that we can find is something about the Laws of the Founders being violated in some way-"

"Ah!" Filius exclaimed. His presence at her pillow disappeared and unfamiliar voices with thick accents emanated from the direction of the doorway. She glimpsed Slughorn smirk in an ingratiating way before too vanishing out of her line of sight.

"Is there anything else I should know?" she forced herself to ask, bracing herself for further horrors. She was mildly surprised that Hogwarts was still standing.

"No, you should lie back and have a rest and not trouble yourself."

"Poppy-!"

"All right. The ghosts are in an uproar and apparently the Bloody Baron has been getting funny twinges from the core for over a month now but didn't bother telling anyone… Bloody Baron, more like Bloody-Minded Baron," the witch added in an undertone. "The whole thing is unbelievable. Nobody's even sure whether these experts will even be able to diagnose the problem, let alone correct it."

"I should be helping them."

"No, you should not!" Poppy said sharply, glaring down at her. "You are going to lie still and drink this potion!"

"It will not put me to sleep, will it?" Minerva eyed the vial suspiciously. Years of experience had taught her that her friend seemed to take some enjoyment out of sending patients into their dreams at crucial moments.

"Of course not!"

"Promise?"

Poppy nodded and Minerva opened her mouth obediently. Her mind was finally beginning to wage war against the migraine, and to race. As the foul mixture burned its way down her throat, the Headmistress found herself staring fixedly at the door, behind which the fate of the school was being assessed.

"They arrived promptly," she commented, gulping. "Or was I unconscious for longer than I think?"

"No; they were very fast. But then it seemed possible that the core was going to explode there and then."

She saw no point in asking further questions and continued to gaze at the door, speculating and attempting to ignore the flustered pacing of Martha Read. The picture of Snape that her failing brain had thrown up in the core chamber reappeared and seemed to dance around her. No, that was impossible; the sheer level of Dark magic needed to disrupt the core was inconceivable - it simply did not exist… Yet what else could it possibly be? There was nothing to be done except wait.

The door creaked open again, slowly. At first Minerva thought that a gust of wind must have flown through the Hospital Wing and forced its opening, but then she realised that Filius's head bobbed just below the handle. The miniature wizard appeared grey and troubled.

Even Martha stilled. Poppy slowly put her hands to her mouth. Filius shifted uneasily.

"They don't know," he said weakly.

Nobody responded.

"They've - they've managed to improve the situation," Filius added tentatively. "Still u-unstable, though."

"No explanation," Minerva said. She felt blank and empty. "None at all?"

"Not exactly, Headmistress."

Slughorn's bulk seemed to materialise beside Filius; the larger wizard only minutely deflated. One plump finger twisted his moustache.  
"Apparently…" The Potions Master paused, observing his audience with an unusual hesitation. "Apparently… Hogwarts is acting as though there are two head-teachers in the castle."

Elsewhere, an old man in the form of a young boy lay still, sensing the return of a strength before sorely missed, and then most undesired.


	15. Adult Secrets

**A/N: Sorry about the wait! This chapter was a real fiend to write, and I sincerely hope it won't be too fiendish to read. I'm really sorry about my poor explanation of the core; it's something I've imagined so long that I guess I've lost the ability to convey it. It's not important that you know what the core chamber looks like, but basically there's a kind of 'beam of power' that makes up of the core itself, but it's surrounded by smaller 'bars' of magic that are the residue cores of past head teachers. Minerva's core is/was one with Hogwarts, meaning the big bar at the centre was hers as well as the school's. Hope that clears some of the confusion up, and I will attempt to draw a picture of it at some stage.**

**I must warn you that I had severe trouble uploading... not sure if this will be displayed correctly. **

* * *

The fever had him. 

In his delirium, it had the form of Brian himself, suffocating him with one of the Hospital Wing pillows and taunting him. At times Brian became Snape, and then Snape became Aberforth. Sweat made the bed a swamp. Figures appeared at his side, roses cloyed at him. They were everywhere, their scarlet creating headaches and polluting the air he breathed.

Brian's eyes were icicles, his mouth was a merciless line. _Idiot, idiot, idiot…_

Past and present mingled like socialites, casually making barbed comments. Harry screamed at him and Severus - no, Snape - spoke the dread words time and time again. Most of all - worst of all - was the memory of-

"_These are for you."_

Aberforth and roses, that eternal, painful paradox. So impossible had the idea been that scepticism had held him rooted to the spot, unable to take his eyes off the galling sight of love. Another irony! His brother had been the one to _practise _what he _preached… _Now two sets of Albus Dumbledore stood beside his sick-bed. One was the twinkly-eyed headmaster whose brother had just fallen in love, who was overjoyed that the hermit had come home. The other was someone he hated to think about, someone who had dashed across the ward in spirit and cast the most excruciating jinx possible on the traitor…

He relived it every day, every night, every second. He was a little boy intruding on the most intimate of adult secrets, the child standing outside the shop window, looking helplessly at a treasure beyond the reach of possibility. Albus no longer knew whether it was the fever raving or himself in the re-enactments; either way the character of Brian Potter became a wraith forged purely out of anger and the old man within devolved into a demon of revenge.

He had left St Mungo's in a haze, his heart swollen and throbbing against his ribcage. Yet another irony had occurred a mere three days later, under Eric's title of a 'happy birthday.' Of course, it wasn't his birthday at all, not the birthday he counted by, not the birthday which marked the birth of Albus Dumbledore and had nothing to do with the construct that was Brian. As for the idea of 'happy,' he had laughed.

Poor Eric. What reaction had he been expecting as he thrust his present (a set of gobstones) at the Potter boy? What anxious hope had he fostered about making Brian - wan, grim, unwashed, unfed - smile again? What had he actually felt when the boy in question had accepted his present with a bitter laugh and a faux grin that would have made the most amateur of actors blush with shame?

If that wasn't enough, Eric had then had to witness a full-blown magical re-awakening in the middle of a classroom! The horror he himself had experienced at the first surging of the power through his veins would have been incomparable, had not the episode at the hospital already occurred.

In this well of self-pity, Albus could almost imagine the circumstances of it all as it could be reported in the Daily Prophet: Transfiguration lesson, nine o'clock, Professor Martha Read. Brian Potter, twelve, collapses in the midst of magical maelstrom. Condition corresponds to that experienced by one twelve year-old Albus Dumbledore in the full awakening of his power. Confined to Hospital Wing. "_It was really weird," _says fellow student Daniel Glover. "_Sparks started shooting out of his fingers! We thought he was going to explode!"_

One twelve year-old Albus Dumbledore practically had, he recalled. The then gamekeeper's hut had been completely demolished and several hundred windows had been smashed. Only long experience had prevented a repetition.

Yet every tragedy has a climax, Albus knew. Tragedies had been the fashion during his twenties; there was no better way of achieving the ecstasy that came with angst than reading a gothic melodrama or watching Oedipus claw his eyes out on stage. Such familiarity with choreographed pain really should have bred some degree of expectation…

How quickly the tone of his thoughts changed! Was he trying to laugh at despair..?

Migraines, stomach-aches, dizziness… he had assumed them to be the symptoms of depression or malnutrition (whoever could lose someone like Minerva and then happily dig into a treacle tart was beyond the reaches of his imagination). After all, emotions could very easily defeat the body.

_Wrong, wrong, all wrong!_

Why had it never occurred to him? Why hadn't the merest, most minute suggestion of it skimmed over the surface of his mind?

"_Don't become rash now."_

That was the reason. Strength was growing beneath the weakness. _Of course _Brian's body would be identical to Albus's. _Of course_ it would grow and develop power in the same way. _Of course _once Brian's magical signature became strong enough to register then Hogwarts would recognise it - and respond to it! All of his deceit, all of his cunning - all utterly useless in the face of such an insurmountable obstacle! When you became one with the school then you were never forgotten!

Fever, brewing magic, depression - any one was enough to result in his being in the Hospital Wing; the collapse into the darkness of oblivion was par for a course. Only when his soul had returned did he feel Hogwarts speaking to him, reaching out to him with unreal fingers which trembled with uncertainty. The tension of a quake remained in the air - he still felt it now - as the castle danced between two poles.

_One, two. One, two. Which one? _

_Minerva, _he thought desperately, as though wishing could change things. Fever-Brian lay his entire body across his head, robbing him of breath. _Choose Minerva, I am yours no longer…_

"Liar," Brian spoke through his own jaw. The migraine was blotting out the ward; for all he knew someone was sitting and taking notes on his raving… "Liar, liar, liar. Hogwarts will be destroyed!"

_No!_

"Then tell her. You must tell her, so something can be sorted out."

_I cannot, I cannot. Harry-_

-Shouting and throwing things. First a prophecy, and then a son that turned out to be a cuckoo-

"Do you want Harry and Ginny happy or do you want the school to collapse? You'll lose your home, after everything…"

Aberforth stood above him and brandished the roses smugly, confidently. Minerva hung on his arm, her body entwined around his. She was younger, a goddess with hair without a trace of silver, and creamy skin unmarred by age-

"Traitor," Albus mumbled brokenly. His brother and Snape joined hands and began to dance. "Is there no one I can trust? Is there no one I love whom I will not lose? Traitor! Severus, please… I trusted you, I trusted you both - Harry! HARRY! Aberforth, why do you hate me? Dad, you don't have to tell me everything… I just want to know the basics! Minerva! One of Snape's old curses? Forgive me, forgive me, I want you to be happy, brother…"

Brian moaned and turned over, the damp of his brow visible even in the moonlight invading through a window on the other side of the ward. Beside him, Poppy Pomfrey listened with a patience born of astonishment. As the boy's breathing slowed into sleep, she unfurled some parchment and began to write a letter.

* * *

"Two?" repeated Abernathy Thompson incredulously. 

Minerva nodded wearily. The Chair of Governors' astonishment was of a type that betrayed ignorance rather than true amazement. Really, she found herself thinking, everything about him seemed indicative of stupidity, from the fussy way he had braided his wispy silver hair to the self-conscious manner with which he gestured with the hand that bore his signet ring. Truly he was one of the most tedious people she had ever had the misfortune to deal with.

But then, Minerva remembered, none of the other elderly men that made up the board and who were also standing in the room with her had ever been anything _but _tedious. They were sat round the mahogany table like sweating spectators to a tennis match, blighted by nervous tics and fiddling fingers, trying to conceal the blatant glass ceiling the Headmistress had found herself victim to.

"Professor McDuffy-" began the man sitting next to Abernathy vaguely.

"Professor McGonagall," Minerva corrected him.

"Professor McGumble, I am not understanding the precise nature of your claim-"

"How vexing, especially as I outlined it a mere five seconds ago," she snapped. Filius shifted next to her; she felt him gaze up at her apprehensively, pleading for a more peaceful approach.

"Now, now," mumbled Abernathy, flashing his signet ring. "There is always room for misunderstanding-"

"I fail to see how anyone can _misunderstand_ what I said. Nevertheless, to reiterate, I have accused you and the rest of these gentlemen of appointing another head teacher without my knowledge."

A wind seemed to sweep round the room, whistling past the candelabras and tapestries. Hands twitched in agitation and the 'gentlemen' exchanged looks: this woman had not obeyed the chance of etiquette that unnecessary clarification gave. Abernathy's plump face was fixed into an expression of bewilderment.

"Headmistress-"

"Were you displeased with my conduct, then twelve signatures would have been required as well as a hearing and probationary period."

"-We are completely-"

"You have no right to turn me out of my job in this way." The words were like lightning bolts from heaven; the goddess was on the rampage.

"-Ignorant of any such-"

"I demand that I be given reasons for this outrage, which, as well you may know, violates one of the cornerstones of the Laws of the Founders. I demand that you identify this alternate individual to me-"

"_Headmistress!"_

Minerva paused and looked coldly into Abernathy's flushed face. Bitterness prevented her from heeding the slight tugging on her arm that came from Filius; hurt had congealed into fury. The night before had been spent evaluating every aspect of her leadership, searching for any little event that might have made a black mark against her. Was it the Dark gathering that had made them think she was losing her touch? Had it been her failure to secure new brooms for Rolanda? Had one of the inspectors spotted her cursing at Mrs Norris? What perfect person had so usurped her place?

The fidgeting had ceased completely; the governors were sat bolt upright in their chairs, trivial paperwork and artificial boredom forgotten. The Chair himself had frozen in the manner of a man cornered by a rattlesnake - but still with that wretched, insolent expression of confusion. Would the pretence never end?

Minerva waited for Abernathy to say something more, but the cry had obviously been one of shock, not one of reason. Her hands reached into her robes and withdrew a gold-edged parchment. Perhaps the governors needed reminding of the old laws.

"'The Founders' Laws, Precept Two, Article One,'" she read. "'That Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry should be headed by _one _head teacher, be they either male or female, to be supported but not overruled by a deputy, be they male or female, and to be bound to the core of the school until their _legal _removal from the post, the conditions of which are under the jurisdiction of the official appointed Board of Governors who are bound to present adequate reasons to the whole panel of twelve if the motion is argued by one, and-"

Abernathy spluttered. "We are quite aware of the Founders' Laws!"

"Professor McDuffy-"

"How dare you accuse us of-"

"Cease this preposterous recital at once-"

"-As put forward by Godric Gryffindor and as agreed by Godric Gryffindor, Salazar Slytherin, Rowena Ravenclaw and Helga Hufflepuff on the night of first of August of the Year of the Sceptre," Minerva finished. She risked a glance at Filius; the tiny Charms professor had his hands to his mouth in horror, but gave her a small nod of approval. "You claim to know these words, but yet you have blatantly broken them. You have not presented me with adequate reasons for my removal, and a new head teacher has been bound to Hogwarts without proper warning or ceremony. I demand to know why this is."

"We would never-"

"How dare you assume us-"

"What grounding does this accusation-"

"Well, what have I done?" The Headmistress could feel the threat of hysteria creeping up her throat; she dropped her eyes to her walking stick. The glass ceiling was spreading, freezing into an even greater solidity. "I have not bedded a pupil! I have not broadcast whatever private relationships you suppose me to have to the student body! I have not embezzled funds-"

Abernathy glared at her, one hand lightly touching the golden clasp of his robe. "Headmistress," he whispered, "had you halted that ridiculous display long enough to listen, you would have discovered that none of us know what you are talking about."

"No other head teacher has been appointed," said the man beside him quietly, equally stony-faced. "_Thus far, _we have had no reason to remove you from your post."

Minerva felt at a sudden loss for words. What could one do in the face of such defiant denial? "The core," she began.

"-Is unstable. Yes, we are _well aware _of that as well," snarled the Chair. "Believe it or not, we are as confused about it as anybody. Believe it or not, we have no wish to have the castle destroyed any more than you do. Believe it or not, you are _wrong _in your assumptions, Professor McDuffy."

"Professor McGonagall," corrected Filius.

Abernathy did not respond.

* * *

The second quake came so suddenly that one moment Minerva was scrutinising a letter written in her own neat script with thoughts of revising several key phrases, and the next, she was staring at a pool of ink as the ink-pot seemed to fling itself over. Afterwards, the Headmistress sat frozen in her chair, withered hands gripping the sides and then curling themselves into fists. Ink dripped off the desk with a steady _plop _that was oddly out of place; it suggested something petite and calm, quite unlike her emotions. Those mere three seconds of near-collapse had undone all the quietening Filius had managed immediately following the disaster with the Board of Governors. 

"Fretting cannot help!" he had squeaked nervously, watching her pace to and fro like what she was: a restless cat. "Try and think of something else!"

Of course it had been impossible, on the main. The agony of announcing the danger to the students, the flurry of owls that had followed, the inexplicable ignorance of the governors and her own fears of crumbling stone and falling masonry had all conspired to weight her mind with countless anxieties. Nevertheless, she had indeed attempted to 'think of something else' - and had half succeeded, until the castle itself reminded her.

Now the news of the damage would come rolling in - and all the time, the ache in her chest had never stopped. Occasionally the pain overwhelmed her, forcing her to sit down. In front of the governors such a luxury had been forbidden; dignity was all-important. That pride had made her downplay the threat to the students, leading to guilt: another beast that lurked inside her wounded chest. Yet Hogwarts was her haven; the idea of anyone thinking of it as a hazard was maddening in itself.

"Scourgify," she said, wiping the parchment clean. The resulting wave of exhaustion made her lean back into the chair and close her eyes. For a moment at least, she could pretend that existence was optional.

A knock on the door. No, escape from her responsibilities was impossible.

"Enter."

The sight of Slughorn, white as a sheet and holding something by the tips of his fingers as though whatever it was could easily contaminate the room, engendered nothing but resignation. Minerva kneaded her temples and leaned forwards. Undoubtedly he was there to complain about the damage caused to potions vials or cauldrons.

"Horace, what can I do for you?"

His walrus-moustache quivered and he transferred the mysterious object into his other hand. _Oh, _said the sarcastic, Snape-like part of her. _Something _valuable _has been damaged this time. _

"I - I have a problem, Headmistress."

"Don't we all," she responded drily. Slughorn did not appear to acknowledge this and instead crept towards her desk tentatively - before flinging the object onto her desk and standing back.

Surprised, Minerva stared at the Potions Master in confusion. He shook his head and passed a hand over his brow, wiping away a sheen of sweat she had only just noticed. The urge to roll her eyes came to her, but instead she looked at the object, which she could now see was a little book, blackened and burnt, looking on the verge of falling apart. There was no title.

"What is this?"

Slughorn said nothing. Irritated, the Headmistress scowled and then, carefully, flipped open the cover. The title page was written in spidery handwriting.

_THE DARK MANIFESTO: BEYOND DEATH_

_LORD VOLDEMORT_

She snapped the book shut as if she had been stung. Heart pounding, she found Slughorn's eyes. "Where did you find this?"

The Potions Master mumbled something, not meeting her gaze.

"Horace Slughorn, _where did you find this?"_

"Slytherin Common Room."

"Did you confiscate it from a student?"

"N-no, I discovered it open in one of the armchairs. Nobody would own up to-"

"Well of course they wouldn't! The penalty for _possessing _this, let alone _reading _it-"

"I-I never suspected-"

"You wouldn't, would you?" Minerva found herself standing and on the verge of shouting. "They talk to you about everything, do they, your little snakes? Yet the same canker-"

"Albus b-believed them equal to the rest of the school!"

Horace could not know, Minerva thought as she sank weakly into her seat again. Rolanda and Poppy would never have betrayed her in that way… She felt sick at herself; was this another prejudice brought to light, or was she just afraid..?

"Headmistress, apologies. I… I should not have referred to your predecessor."

Slughorn had deflated, his bulk reducing to that of a mouse, the sense of pride he exuded apparently erased. Fingers fumbled with each other, gone was the trademark 'Slughorn smirk.' When he spoke, every word seemed dragged from him.

"I… This is m-my fault… Y-you're right; I talk at my l-little snakes but they never talk to me…"

"Horace-" Minerva began, startled. The pompous face before her was dissolving into one marked by shame and guilt.

"No, no," he mumbled, holding up one hand. "I admit it, I…I can't watch it a-again. The Second War was my fault-"

The Headmistress wondered what world she had entered: a world where Hogwarts stood divided between two head teachers, a world where brothers wooed women with symbols of each other, a world where Horace Slughorn, vain as a peacock and a good deal more self-indulgent, was prepared to take on the deaths of hundreds as his sole responsibility… The mind boggled.

"That's ridiculous," she said aloud. "How you can possibly-"

"I t-told him about Horcruxes…"

At last, a missing piece in the puzzle of history. She suspected Harry had known, but had never said a word about it. Yet this confession - this sign that He had been right, that He had seen the first shoots of a decent tree growing out of a decadent seed - had a relevance that was not immediate, a relevance that could only come into effect when Slughorn's soul met judgement. More urgent was the fact that the words of Lord Voldemort had survived to once again eat away at that same devious House. Could a younger generation grasp the significance, when they knew the Dark Lord from textbooks and hear-say, and probably not much of Tom Riddle at all? Did the possibility of Tom Riddle sitting in a classroom, listening to History of Magic, ever occur to them? No, Voldemort was an evil that transcended humanity; his protégé could never be a mere boy reading in a common room.

Yet He had known, even before history had given her first warning.

"Severus…" Slughorn cut himself off.

…_Please, _finished the younger Professor McGonagall who had once eaten meals next the former Potions Master. _Please tell me you did not smuggle this in. _

The older Professor McGonagall's face hardened. She would make sure she heeded the other warning as well.

* * *

The first day Brian's body felt strong enough to stand without swaying, Albus was confronted by two letters. 

He took the rolled parchment from Madam Pomfrey silently, only being allowed to break the seals once he had swallowed two vials of foul-tasting potion and had changed from pyjamas into school robes in preparation for Brian's first lessons since the fever had begun. The letter, Poppy's instructions to return after lunch, the fuzziness still attached to his brain, even the peril in which Hogwarts stood - all paled before the task before him. He had remembered it within five seconds of awakening, with a sudden, leaden feeling permeating Brian's body and causing his head to drop back down on the pillow immediately after lifting it. How would she react? What would she say? What would _he _say? The mind raced at the idea. Some insane part of him wanted to shout it from the top of the Astronomy Tower, inform the Daily Prophet or paint the truth in gigantic letters all over the Quidditch pitch; so repressed had it all been, for so many years…

_Ah, _he remembered. That was part of the problem.

Distractedly, he unfurled the parchment.

_You are in danger. I cannot defend you directly, you must appeal to your father. Your enemy's name is Jonathan Blaine. _

The words had been assembled out of newspaper cuttings and the parchment was crumpled. Feeling an odd sense of universal irony, Albus eyed the printed characters with puzzlement. _How cliché. _As for the name of Jonathan Blaine, over a century of memory did not avail him; the only reference the surname had was of a boy two years above him during his own school days - who had been in Hufflepuff and had been so insignificant in the great scheme of things that it was bizarre he was remembered at all. Reflecting that Brian Potter's only enemies could be those with a hatred of Potters in general, he pocketed the note and turned his attention to the other letter.

Harry's handwriting made him blink, but the contents were written in the stilted, hesitant way of something which two minds, not one, had fretted over and revised endlessly.

_Dear Brian,_

_You will probably only read this when you recover, so we hope you are feeling better. We visited twice whilst you were ill, but both times you were asleep and looked too peaceful to disturb. However, please don't think that we aren't aware of what's troubling you; Madam Pomfrey informed us that you talked a lot whilst you were ill, and that you talked about the Second War. _

_Obviously, something about this is weighing on your mind. Brian, please tell us what you know and how you know it. If you have read a troubling account of it that shocked you, or frightened you, then we would rather know so that we can talk about it with you. We aren't angry that you followed your natural curiosity, just worried. _

_Please don't hesitate to confide in us and never forget that we both love you. _

_Love from_

_Mum & Dad_

Brian's groan made Madam Pomfrey look up from her book. Albus forced a nonchalant smile and inwardly cursed the witch for 'informing' Harry and Ginny of anything. Merlin knew exactly what had been communicated, exactly what had been given away. Had Poppy repeated, word for word, whatever he had said during the fever, or had she just given a vague summary? Whilst the letter betrayed only the uneasiness of parents who believed their son to have read something too graphic for pre-adolescent consumption, there was no saying what real doubts know lurked at the heart of the Potter home.

Of course, the letter was not even his foremost concern. Even whilst reading it, Minerva had lurked in his thoughts. He couldn't imagine any reaction apart from angry incomprehension. He would go to her with only his memories for proof.

Even Harry could wait.

* * *

The fifth quake had been the first to cause what even the ever optimistic Filius would call serious damage. It was one thing for Slughorn's vials to be knocked over, or for Madam Pince to complain of falling books, but quite another for a student to be knocked unconscious by a plummeting gargoyle, or for the Fat Friar to be reduced to a wisp of smoke. 

The consequences had been inevitable; the student's mother had withdrawn them from the school for an indefinite period, and the ghosts (as well as every other magical creature in the castle, from the portraits to the suits of armour) were in an uproar. As for the state of the Fat Friar himself, Minerva had been strongly, and unpleasantly reminded of the basilisk affair of Harry's second year. This time, there was nothing Pomona Sprout to contribute to the solution and no possibility of a solution at all until the core was stabilised.

Of course, Minerva thought, clutching a soothing cup of tea like a lifeline, even terming it all as a 'quake' was hardly sufficient. 'Quake' implied that the only plane to be affected was the physical one, whereas such a complicated magical problem had more ominous effects than that; the duration of such periods was marked most disturbingly by the inability to cast any sort of spell, from _Nox _to _Accio. _For all the cheer of Filius, the flippancy of the governors and her own bravado, Hogwarts teetered on a knife-edge.

Perhaps it was therefore appropriate for the most unstable of the castle's occupants to be present, Minerva thought irritably.

"How am I supposed to remain sensitive to cosmic vibrations when _earthly _vibrations have created a hole in my roof?" Sybil Trelawney's magnified eyes were filled with tears and indignation. "Headmistress, your lack of sympathy-"

The Headmistress felt a muscle twitch in her cheek. "Forgive me, Sybil, if I do not find cosmic vibrations to be particularly urgent-"

"Neither do I," said Martha Read in a high voice.

"Then what would _you _consider to be urgent, Martha?"

The Transfiguration professor folded her arms and adopted the martyred expression so native to Sybil that her audience blinked. "Well, their importance is somewhat subjective, but I feel that this whole thing has irreparably damaged my nerves."

"Goodness, well that _is_ a disaster," Minerva snapped. "Again, forgive me if once again-"

"A bookcase nearly _fell _on me, Headmistress!"

_That 'nearly' - such a pity, such a pity. _

"If you feel unwell, then you should consult Poppy," the Headmistress said aloud.

"… I request a leave of absence."

Such insolence robbed her of speech. Sybil seized the opportunity.

"M-My treatment has been inexcusable! I _demand _that my roof be repaired, I _demand _that I be given some redress! My situation is unacceptable-"

"Then you may leave."

Minerva heard herself from a distance. She was too tired, too exhausted to deal with Sybil's silliness or Martha's sensitivity; much too drained to curb her tongue and swallow her bile. She felt nothing but detached anger as Sybil started and flashed red then white, before rising to her feet and pointing with a trembling finger.

"Y-You have _n-never _appreciated me, Minerva! You have _never _appreciated my t-teaching or my gifts; you have always ridiculed me and turned the s-staff against me-"

"I repeat my request for a leave of absence-"

"Then take it," snarled a voice from the corner.

Aberforth's face was lined with annoyance and his grizzled mane of hair made him appear quite alarming. Both of the witches opposite Minerva jumped - but Sybil's eyes darted to the roses livid in the wizard's hand as he moved towards them. Minerva wondered how long he had been watching the exchange - at exactly what point had he emerged from the fireplace? The direction of Sybil's glance did not escape her; embarrassed, she waved a hand but Aberforth had already passed round the desk.

"I suggest you stop harassing the woman and sort out your own problems," he growled. Martha wilted in her chair but the Divination professor ignored him and looked at Minerva incredulously.

"So _this _is the way of things? W-we are shunted aside in preference to your _l-lover!"_

Aberforth's jaw clamped shut and his eyes swivelled to the Headmistress. The request for a confirmation of this idea hung in the air. Minerva could feel the blood moving to her face. She stood up.

"I apologise for any offence I may have given and grant Professor Read her leave of absence. I will make enquiries about the roof. You may leave."

Sybil mouthed incoherently but Minerva's attention was on Aberforth, whose brows lowered at the evasion. The cliff-face remained rigid even after the two professors had exited from the room, and the roses were thrust hurriedly upon the desk without preamble, their giver then retreating backwards slightly.

"Thank you for stopping that silliness," said the Headmistress lightly.

The atmosphere did not lift; instead it grew heavier, deeper. Aberforth was eyeing her through narrowed eyes, waiting for something. Her heart was beginning to race beyond the pain.

"Thank you for the roses." The wizard's face twitched, the mask - for she was sure it was a mask - flickered. "They're not much."  
His loneliness was all around her, appealing to her. Her gaze locked onto the roses as a distraction. "They are still beautiful."

"Are they? When they're nothing too upmarket?"

"Yes."

"Even when there are better ones being sold?"

She had lost track of the conversation entirely. "Yes."

"Even when you've had others… better ones… before?"

Dippet coughed behind her. Aberforth was babbling, that was the only explanation. "…Yes."

"And you think them beautiful?"

"Yes!"

Dippet coughed again. Minerva heard a sharp intake of breath.

"They are not as beautiful as you."

The tone of his voice made her look up; it was no longer harsh but thick, weighted with feeling. Yet it was not that, but the sight of his face that held her paralysed, incapable even of thinking.

The cliff had given way - utterly, suddenly, so that not a trace of crag remained. Behind it, something soft and stupefied stared out at her, the lines seeming to fade, years dropping off. He was smiling, smiling in a way that conveyed ecstasy rather than mere cheer, and the cold sapphire of his eyes had melted with emotion - she perceived, for the first time, the depth it all, that he was not fond but _besotted._

Only now did she grasp the metaphor, only now she did realise the meaning of her own answers. She remained frozen in her chair as he moved around the desk and knelt so that their faces were level, as though she had just given 'I do' to a proposal. Still staring at her with a gaze befuddled with love, he took her hand with unexpected delicacy and proceeded to rub his cheek against it in mute adoration.

_ Oh Merlin._

Pity and horror writhed in her chest. She had answered without knowing the true question, had seemingly proclaimed her love when there was nothing but friendship. Or was there? Albus was dead, his brother held the only future. The slanted script of Eleanor Reeves came back to her:

_ You must allow yourself to live._

Truth pointed out the insincerity of it all, the fact that in sitting there and allowing Aberforth's rough beard to brush against her fingers she was deceiving him… Yet no, there was fire there, in her heart, there was love, of a sort: in Aberforth there would always be Albus - the point of his nose, the shape and colour of his eyes, the line of his jaw…

He was kissing the tips of her fingers now, looking more worshipful every second. Could she refuse him? Was the capacity to break his heart within her? For now she knew that it was not the idle attachment she had either believed in or hoped for; he had thrown his soul into the balance.

Looking at him as his eyes drank in her image and his hand stroked hers, she knew that that capacity was _not_ within her. She could not say no, she could not cause more pain to both herself and him… she could not deny the reality any longer.

Albus was dead and she was alive. What kind of person devoted themselves to death when life tugged at her, was even now placing unexpectedly soft lips on the back of her hand? He was gone and it was she who prevented any peace. How many more tears were there to cry, how much more grief to suffer? Was it vanity that kept her thinking of a god when here there was a man? He would approve, she was sure, he would approve… The man at her side was only a friend in terms of her own self-denial, her grief keeping at bay all natural feelings. In fact, this, more than any other, was a triumph of love, a victory of the soul…

A draft rustled the paper on the desk, just as Aberforth placed a hand under her chin, apparently speechless in his joy. _That was you, you are gone now, I have set you free-_

Aberforth was inches from her now, wide blue eyes recalling the young man in him. Minerva suddenly felt him to be adorable just as his hand cupped her cheek and a knock sounded at the door - something completely irrelevant, to be ignored…

Her eyes were closing in anticipation. _What did it matter,_ she thought, _what did anything matter?_

There was another rap at the door, but Minerva raised a hand and curled her fingers in the beard before her… Even the irritating audience of the portraits was beyond her attention-

The person outside the office gave another desperate thump on the wood-

Their lips touched-

-The door burst open.

"Professor, I'm sorry but-"

Silence, as the voice cut itself off. Flushing, she pulled back and Aberforth stood up abruptly, a look of disappointment dimming the happiness slightly, as she turned her head to see the invader-

Brian Potter was framed in the doorway, white as a sheet and gaping, looking as though he had been hit in the face in with a cauldron. The least furious part of Minerva thought this was a bit of an overreaction to the admittedly shocking sight the student had come across, the main part of her wanted to levitate him out of the nearest window, half-moon spectacles and all.

Conscious of her scarlet face, the Headmistress rose to her feet trembling with anger, just as the boy's face contorted with pain-

"How _dare_ you," she hissed, "how _dare-"_

"I'm s-sorry," came the choked reply. The boy had covered his face with both hands and was standing with his shoulders hunched, apparently in the depth of some torment.

"Why have you come?" She said it quietly, knowing that giving greater rein to her voice would result in shouting.

Brian spoke as though the words were dragged from him. "I - I came to tell you something-"

"It can wait! It can wait! How _dare_ you enter without my permission-"

_ "Please!"_

The boy let his hands drop to his eyes and stared at the floor. After a couple of seconds, Minerva saw something wet fly downwards, glinting like a jewel. _It wasn't his fault-_

The roar of the Floo behind her told her that Aberforth had left, evidently now secure enough to finish what was started at some other time. The Headmistress sank back down her chair, suddenly weary and regretting her anger. It really _hadn't_ been Brian's fault that he had arrived at the wrong time, and the news he carried really could be urgent.

"What do you wish to tell me?"

The boy wiped his face with a sleeve and looked up at her, face pale and strained. "I came - I came to tell you my name."

The ashes began to kindle back into a flame. "I know your name!"

"But-"

"Is this some sort of joke?"

"No-"

"Some sort of dare, perhaps?"

"Professor-"

"Are you not aware that the castle is in some considerable danger and that I might not find such things amusing?"

"But-"

"You have pushed my patience-"

"Minerva-"

She halted in violent indignation. The sound of her name was the last straw. He, meanwhile, looked at her with the fatigue of an old, unhappy man - and spoke in the tones of such.

"My name is Albus Dumbledore."

**A/N: Yes. There you have it: indisputable proof of my evil. **


	16. His Darling

**A/N: Thank you for all your wonderful reviews! I'm very sorry for the wait - and for the quality of this chapter, which I rewrote several times only to continue being unhappy about it. Oh and as for any similarities to movies - not intentional! I had never even heard of the movie in question... Anyway... I hope you somehow enjoy. **

The office was still, and the silence scintillating.

The words were all wrong, Albus realised dimly. He had not meant to tell her like that. The rehearsals of the long and gentle explanations, the revising of the envisaged conversation were all pointless, all lost because of an unforeseen element – no, a _denied _element. The words had all been driven away by a reality which was not only no longer his but now in the possession of someone else; someone whose delirious face was now seared and scorched into his brain, as if the image of what he had seen had been a lighted brazier primed to bring him back from a fantasy. Oh, what had he thought those roses meant? The truth! The gap left by the silence and Minerva's uncomprehending face filled itself with a nursery rhyme-

_Aberforth and Minerva, sitting in a tree- _

No, it was supposed to be him-

Minerva was white, he noticed distantly. All the blood had left her face, leaving it the colour of bone; this was the knowledge of his own death staring out at him-

"Albus…"

His fists clenched. Now that the moment had come, he didn't feel the need to say anything at all.

"Minerva, I-"

The blood rushed back, and he saw her shoot upwards as though from a distance, and heard her scream as though it was an echo-

"HOW DARE YOU! HOW DARE YOU! WHO… WHO HAD YOU DO THIS?"

She was suddenly beside him, bearing down on him, her whole frame shaking with rage. Albus wondered vaguely if he had ever seen her this angry before.

"HOW _DARE-" _

Words appeared to fail the Headmistress. A withered hand flew backwards, and the next second his face was ringing and the sound of a slap was lingering in the air. Dippet shouted something, Merlin knew what, and somehow he was speaking, even though his glasses had flown off his nose onto the floor-

"Allow me to explain-"

He caught her arm as it came down again, and held it, so that the furious green eyes were inches from his own.

"Minerva! You must listen to me – I am not as I appear; this is Albus speaking to you!" Brian's boyish voice had risen in a shout. "I was reborn as-"

She wrenched herself free and stared at him with wide eyes.

"You're raving…"

Desperation made him lunge forwards. "Minerva, I can prove it – ask me anything, anything at all! I am a Headmaster; the castle still obeys me, it still shapes itself around my will – ask me to summon the suits of armour, the portraits, widen the corridors – anything! I can prove-"

"Merlin…" She was backing away from him, face filled with fear and shock. "You're delirious… Poppy should not have-"

"- It all; Minerva, I have the memories! I remember Grindelwald, I remember your role – how you pretended, how I discovered what you were doing-"

"How do you – but of course, you must have read something – Grindelwald is included on the curriculum-"

"-How I found you…" Something wet trickled down his cheek as the memories passed before his eyes. "How I found you after you'd decided to give yourself for the cause-"

"No-"

"Your recovery in St Mungo's-"

"Potter-"

"NO!"

Despair-

"He was _my _boy, not the other way around… he was mine, I am not his – I am not his-"

The fire had gone out of him. There was nothing left to say, nothing left to do. Minerva did not and would never believe him, and all was lost anyway because of Aberforth-

_K-I-S-S… _

He could hear her taking deep breaths, but did not look up because his familiarity with her mannerisms only bred pain. She would be closing her eyes so that her lashes stood out against her skin, and her sensuous mouth would twisting itself as she bit back words and reassessed the situation inside her head. Merlin, he knew her too well. The Hogwarts Headmaster would have helped her by now - he would have said something soothing after the event had passed, and then would have made her a cup of tea. Yes, that was the Headmaster all over. What would Albus Dumbledore have done?

"Mr Potter…"

There was no point in protesting, but he couldn't help giving Brian's head a thorough shake.

"I am not aware of what your father has told you about the War, or about… my predecessor, but I will be asking him not be quite so detailed in his accounts about either as you seem to be very disturbed by it. Forgive me for… my transgression; I don't believe that either of us are _quite _in our normal frames of mind. Now, you are coming back down with me to the Hospital Wing, and Madam Pomfrey-"

_Thump._

Albus looked up. A purple, embossed book had fallen off the desk, having evidently shifted as the Headmistress resumed her seat. The pages had fallen open, to reveal photos, photos of a man with a long white beard and twinkling blue eyes.

Brian's body seemed to shoot upwards of its own accord, and the room swayed as the blood fled his face.

"Why?"

He barely realised that he had said it aloud; his mind was racing along pathways previously unexplored. Why was there a book apparently crammed with himself in an office that was now Minerva's? Was it hers? What did she hope to find in images of himself? Yes, himself from the overseas prospectus - his _old _self: snowy locks, Father Christmas beard, gouged lines, whiskers, crow's feet, spindly shanks, gnarled hands… _repulsive. _Why bother cutting his rebarbative figure from the prospectus in the first place? Did she perhaps regard him as someone worth remembering, worth mourning, worth _treasuring _within gilt-edged covers?

_You were friends, _the voice at the back of his head said. _Of course she would mourn you._

…But to the extent of collating photos and placing an album of them prominently on her desk?

"Because I feel that it is necessary, Mr Potter," she replied, breaking into his thoughts, and bending down to retrieve the book. She was going to close it, Albus thought, she was going to slap those rich covers back down on his reproduced face. A feeling of urgency engulfed him.

Her hand was inches away from it when he snatched it up himself.

"Thank you-" she began, but he was already rifling through the pages. His arrogant assumption had been correct; he was smiling from every page, so that the reader was overwhelmed, bombarded. Was that Aberforth's writing? Were these first fifteen pages curled at the corners because Minerva had thumbed through them?

He heard the chair scrape back as her temper rose again… She was still Minerva McGonagall despite the passing of time. Her fury still flared so quickly… She was speaking; scolding the unbalanced, cozening boy before her, but for once her words did not matter-

"That was not what I meant," he interrupted. He could hardly speak for lack of breath; the discovery had emptied his lungs and almost stopped his heart. "Why do you have this?"

The silence was half expected. Her face was still fixed in a glare but a flicker in the eyes betrayed her.

"Why do you have this?"

The nostrils flared. "I do not believe it to be any of your business-"

The album was like a Time-Turner; he was getting younger by the second. White hair to auburn, lines fading, beard regaining its lustre… Could it be..?

"Oh, it is. I am the man in the photos after all."

"Madam Pomfrey-"

"-Were she to examine me properly would find me as sane as yourself."

"Mr Potter-"

"-Would be thoroughly shocked if he knew. That is why I have thus far taken the precaution of telling him nothing."

"_Give it-"_

He dodged her grasping hand easily. Phoenix song seemed to be playing in the background just as he came to the last few pages, to see Aberforth's clumsy handwriting spell out something so wonderful that it set him laughing. He was still laughing as he turned the book around and held it up to the goddess.

_Albus, trelve. _

The photo had been taken in the days before photos could be animated, or even imbued with colour. It was a sepia-grey and badly creased across one of the corners, but the boy's grin still shone through, his tender youth caught like a butterfly and seeming to contradict the stiff Victorian collar and austere cravat he was wearing. Goodness, he still remembered how it had felt, wearing a Victorian Hogwarts school uniform which was little more than a mass of heavy robes with fragile clasps which broke if one tugged at them too hard or got caught on the very robes they were meant to be fastening. If he strained, he could even remember how youth had felt the first time round, when there was no aged soul to conceal and no innocence that was feigned. He could not look now quite as he did within that photo; the eyes he knew to be cornflower blue were untainted and filled with zest…

The book was torn from his hands and slammed down on the desk. Minerva was trembling and ashen. He saw her emerald eyes dart from him to the picture and back again in apparent disbelief. The thoughts behind them were all too easy to guess: here was Albus, and here was Brian, and here they looked the same.

"It's - it's some sort of trick-"

Her voice was wobbling and his laughter stopped. "No tricks, Minerva."

"_Stop it."_

"Stop what, my dear?"

"_Stop calling me that!"_

To his horror, her eyes had flooded. He stepped forward.

"My dear, my darling-"

"P-Polyjuice?"

"From the body of a man who died before Brian was born?"

"_No, no, no…" _Minerva had wrapped her arms around herself and was shaking her head. The tears began to spill over. "You are Harry and Ginny's son! You _are _Brian!"

"My dear, poor Brian never really existed. His was a persona I invented. Please-"

He hated it, hated seeing her tears. He moved forwards, with no clear intention but that of somehow comforting her, but she backed away.

"Albus is dead! Merlin knows I've t-tried to deny it, but it's true! He died nearly twenty years ago!"

"Yes, yes he did! Listen to me - the essay Brian wrote, when he first came to Hogwarts - did it not strike you as being a little familiar in style? I made an error, my dear, and had to leave you with the impression that Brian was a cheat. I believed that revealing my identity would endanger the happiness of Harry and Ginny - I have told you now because of the core… The school has two head teachers as my magic returned to me… Minerva, I do not understand it any more than you do but I swear to you that it's true. When have I ever lied to you, my darling?"

She gazed at him with red eyes and a slack face. "_Albus n-never called me his darling."_

Then her features crumpled. All was quiet except for her gulps; Albus's mouth abruptly ceased to work. He wanted to say that that was because Albus had been a silly old fool, but his tongue would not obey him. Instead he could only wait until the tears finally slowed enough for her to speak again:

"There's v-very little proof…"

"The photograph," he said quietly. "The core. If you wish, you may test me under Veritaserum. A skilled Leglimens would also be able to confirm it."

She gave another gulp and he felt a sick twisting inside his chest.

"My dear…"

"This cannot be true. It defies all reason, all sense, all sanity." She said it almost angrily, and turned to point at an empty picture frame hanging behind the desk. "Albus is dead. His portrait appeared on the wall."

"Was I ever in the portrait?"

"Yes, _he _was."

"Did I ever speak to you?"

"No, _he _did not. He was asleep… and then he v-vanished."

"Because I was reborn. I would hazard a guess that my portrait was never fully animated as I did not die completely…"

"No! I will not - I will not be hoodwinked in this way-"

"The photograph, Minerva! Does this body look _anything _like Harry or any of the Weasleys? No, it does not - it does not because it is not a part of them; it is _my _body rather than Brian's!"

"…Coincidence…" She whispered it, knuckling her hands in her eyes.

"Do you believe in such coincidences?"

At that moment, the floor buckled, as if a ripple had suddenly run across the surface of a pond. Minerva had opened her mouth to stay something, but closed it again, instead laying one hand on her chest. The tips of Albus's fingers suddenly stung, as though he had dipped them into a fire. He became aware of a headache nestling between his temples - a familiar headache…

The portraits swivelled their eyes around to look towards something invisible to the living occupants of the room, just the floor gave another heave that sent the Headmistress staggering sideways…

"Ah," muttered Phineas, sharp eyebrows knotted. "I think-"

The sound was like a thunderclap.

Fireworks leapt inside Albus's skull just as the room began to sway violently, the pensieve cabinet's doors swinging open and paper cascading off the desk. _Something _shot up across the walls, crackling in and out of the masonry, fizzling like lightning, _something _which even without the clarity his glasses was instantly recognisable-

Dippet began to scream. The sound was so dreadful, so unexpected that Albus's feet rooted themselves to the floor, ignoring the urge to run… Whimpers of fear went around the other portraits as Dippet's cracked voice rose and rose, beginning to cut the painted throat raw. Minerva had sunk into the chair, curling over the agony inside her ribcage… Two Heads, Albus realised numbly, watching the magic weave its away through the stones, two Heads in the same room…

"_Minerva!"_

The magic of the bucking core wreathed itself around him, just as Dippet's frame became a halo of flames.

* * *

"… Now if yeh follow me, we will be at the enclosure jus' within a few-" 

Hagrid stopped, bewildered. Most of the Third Years, shivering in the April breeze, continued to gaze into the Forbidden Forest in what the half-giant interpreted as gleeful expectation, but a few looked around confusedly, exchanging glances and raised eyebrows. Hagrid was used to being interrupted during lessons, but not by earth tremors.

"Did yeh feel that?"

"Professor, is it another quake?"

Hagrid felt his massive bones reverberate slightly. The thought of hippogriffs seemed rather less urgent. "Ne'er felt it through the ground before…"

The vibration came again. Indecision held Hagrid to the shifting earth; the quakes were bound to continue until someone found out what was wrong with the core, surely? There was no use in him going back… A screech turned his eyes to the sky.

"Look at that cloud, Professor. Is that-?"

Hagrid was gone; the Third Years could see the half-giant running full-tilt in the direction of the castle. Looking up again and peering more carefully, a word occurred to them all, a word no one dared say because the implications were both dreadful and obvious: _owls_. _Owls,_ one massive flock of owls, flying as one as though fleeing something, flying away from Hogwarts.

* * *

The Fat Lady was gone, and they were trapped.

Eric Weasley was clinging to the bedpost, as that was all that was left to cling to, the only thing the creeping fronds of magic hadn't yet touched. Downstairs, they were all in the Common Room, perhaps still flinging themselves against the door and trying to get out, or burying themselves into the sofas-

Across the room, Daniel Glover was splayed out on the floor, blood leaking from his ears, rolling limply from side to side with every savage shockwave. Eric hoped he was all right, but there was nothing he could do if he wasn't; even magic didn't work anymore - that's why they were trapped, with no Alohomora, no nothing-

He closed his eyes and turned his head away from the window - he couldn't bear to look at the window, not any more; he had seen the Astronomy Tower crumble and fall, masonry cascading through the air like shooting stars, with the students who had been on top of the tower like stars as well, screaming stars lost amongst the stones…

* * *

Albus was being born again. He was quite certain of this; here was the same pulsing darkness he remembered from twelve years ago. There was a pressure on his back and head that was not entirely uncomfortable but not wholly pleasant either, and it seemed as though his mother - whoever it would be, this time - was somehow aware of his thoughts… If he thought of Minerva and his brother, the darkness seemed to reverberate with his distress, and if he thought of Minerva and himself then the night around him seemed friendlier.

"… This will be just about the last straw for the governors…"

Slughorn's pompous voice was unexpected, and the darkness became still and empty. Reluctantly, Albus listened.

"Blow the governors!" Rolanda's voice was cracked and miserable. "What about Minerva, I say! What about those poor students-"

Somebody gave a dry sob. Albus felt his heart begin to race, just as the darkness lifted. His surroundings were now no longer pulsing or warm. Instead, curtains came into view - white curtains that might be used in a St Mungo's hospital ward…

"Yes, of course - I didn't mean to-" began Slughorn clumsily.

"Oh, shut up!" Pomona sounded furious.

"My good woman, I know you are upset about your plants, but-"

"If you're going to go on about your potions-!"

"Be quiet, the pair of you," snapped Poppy. "I honestly cannot believe that mature people can be concerned about plants and potions when we have a death-toll of ten!"

The audible silence allowed for the impact of the words to hit him. He sat up. He was in a bed with crisp white sheets, which in turn was encircled by crisp white curtains. Nearby, a spindly chair crouched, bearing its load of a crumpled Daily Prophet. The headline screamed at him and jerked him out of bed.

_TRAGEDY AT HOGWARTS_

_TEN CHILDREN FEARED DEAD IN FREAK CORE EXPLOSION_

_Ten children. _

Was that what his conversation with Minerva had cost?

Memories of the War flashed back into his head. All his fear and despair had been contained in those painful moments when parents had withdrawn their children because of dead relatives, writing demurely, crowding their grief with etiquette and reservation: "Dear Sir…" "We regret informing you…" "…In this time of sorrow…" Or, even worse, whenever he had had to summon a student to his office and tell them of dead parents or siblings or friends. How many times had he had to lend a handkerchief or speak without adequate words? He remembered the death of Cedric, and how he had been unable to keep his voice from trembling at the mere thought of speaking with Mr Diggory…

Ten children.

Was even Hogwarts still standing? If the Daily Prophet had not exaggerated and if the core had indeed fully exploded then surely that was it. He tried to envisage the castle collapsing, spouting magic in its death-throes, but imagination failed him. Nightmares had no place in reality.

"Where _is_ Harry?"

Slughorn's voice made him jump.

"He's gone to see the Headmistress," came Filius's squeak. "Apparently she requested his presence."

"Minerva's awake?" Rolanda spoke sharply. "Why did no one tell me?"

"No, come back," said Poppy. "She probably wants to see Mr Potter alone."

"She wasn't alone when he went," said Filius. "Aberforth was there."

"Oh, him," sniffed Sybil disdainfully. "Her _lover."_

Albus gave a deep, shuddering sigh and stumbled towards the curtains, ears ringing. He drew them aside and peered out to see the professors look up at him from their seats. Hagrid was sobbing, his great, ruddy face wet with tears, and Pomona was looking vacant and lost. Sybil, meanwhile, was sitting apart from the rest of the professors with folded arms and an air of injury and malice. Filius's normally cheerful face was worn and miserable, and Rolanda had bitten her nails to the quick. Poppy was sat beside her, an arm around one of her shoulders, but any reassuring qualities were somewhat diminished by her bloodshot eyes and grey skin. Less predictably, beside her sat a very subdued-looking Alastor Moody, whose claw of a hand was coiled around the witch's as though holding her to earth.

"Mr Potter, I rather think you should be in bed," she said sternly, but Albus ignored her.

"What happened?" His voice came out as a croak.

"Nothing that is your concern. Now-"

"The Daily Prophet… it said that ten students…"

Hagrid gave an almighty sob. Poppy's eyes went glassy and distant. "Yes… Five of them were on the Astronomy Tower when it collapsed… Well, there were four below…" Her voice tailed off.

"And the other?"

"Magical core imploded," growled Moody. "Sheer weight of mezrel was too much for them."

"M-Mezrel?" Hagrid pressed a sodden handkerchief against his cheeks.

"Unit of magical measurement, man - but of course, you never made it past your third year…"

Bile crawled up Albus's throat. He swayed and collapsed into the nearest chair. Would there ever be an end to human tragedy?

"Mr Potter-" Poppy began again.

"No," he said roughly. Was Minerva telling Harry all he had said? "My father - he's with M… Professor McGonagall… When will he be-?"

"Martha!"

Pomona's exclamation made him look up. Martha Read was walking briskly down the corridor towards them with an expression of resigned determination. Casting a stony glare at Albus alias Brian, she halted beside Filius and bowed her head.

"I came as soon as I heard," she snapped. "What has happened to the students?"

"Evacuated," grunted Moody, seemingly not noticing the flicker of fear which Albus spotted pass over Martha's face. "Ten are dead and several are injured."

"What were the names of the students killed?"

Filius gave a heavy sigh. "Emily Bridge, Matthew Hardcastle, Jonathan Jones, Ryan Abercrombie, Donald O'Sullivan, Helena Yale, Bethany Atkins, Kara Cleeves, Leonard Cliff and Petra Albronsa."

Martha's face was impassive. "Right, now tell me everything from the beginning."

The miniature wizard blinked and Rolanda raised her eyebrows. Sybil rolled her eyes.

"Well aren't you nice and organised _after_ the emergency," she said bitterly. "You didn't have to go through having the castle start falling down all around you. I was attempting to gaze into the Orb when it happened. There was a disturbance on the Spirit plane-"

"Funny how you didn't foresee it then," muttered Rolanda. "All right. Basically, it started off like an ordinary quake but instead of stopping, it just got worse. Some of the portraits started screaming and the others dashed around like mad things - as did the suits of armour. Students who were near the core chamber at the time had their wands burst into flames and others were trapped in their Common Rooms as their guardians had fled. We had to destroy portraits to get them out. Magic started shooting up and down the corridors… The air sort of glowed… It was terrible. Filius somehow managed to summon the Aurors, who managed to get hold of those Swedes again… I reckon they're the only reason why the castle is still standing. The Aurors also got Minerva and Brian Potter out of the head's office - apparently the place was in flames-"

"And how is Mr Potter?" Martha asked sharply.

"Well he's sitting right in front of you…you can tell for yourself."

Martha fixed Albus with a look both unexpectedly shrewd and penetrating. "Shouldn't he be in bed?"

"Brian!"

Albus barely had time to turn around before being enveloped in a crushing hug. Harry's heart beat next to his ear and the Chief Auror pulled him forward, so that the whole of his dazed weight was being supported by his father.

"Thank Merlin-"

"How's M- Professor McGonagall?"

Harry drew back and gripped him by shoulders, looking at him searchingly. Albus tensed; had Minerva divulged the secret to him?

"She's in quite a lot of pain, but she's awake. She wants to see you. But first, here's a message that arrived for you-" Albus took the proffered sealed envelope. "-And secondly… well, I have some personal news for you, but on second thoughts, that can wait. It's not really a suitable time."

"Personal news?"

Harry gave him a weak smile. "Yes. _Good_ news. I'd rather tell you at a less pressing moment. The Headmistress is waiting for you… she says it's urgent, but please don't tire her out. Turn right and it's the ward on the second left."

Trembling slightly, Albus slit open the envelope as he walked, or rather, stumbled up the corridor. Did Minerva believe what he had told her? If so, what was this conversation going to hold? Would it hold anything at all? The image of Aberforth and Minerva brushing their lips together came back suddenly, inappropriately. Ten students were dead and his thoughts were centred on this? It was all too much to take in.

The newspaper-cut letters caught his eye.

_I assume you have not told your father. Typical. I shall attempt to aid you more personally. _

**A/N: Godawful. All the cheese! **_  
_


	17. Truth

**A/N: Because I love you guys!**

The ceiling was watching her. Its impartial face was the only audience to all her thoughts; the idea of saying anything at all to Aberforth was simply beyond all endurance. His frantic cries of her name as she had awoken, and the way he had kissed her desperately, whispering relief and worry into her ears, had left her emotionally comatose as well as physically. Could she return his attentions with any true sincerity when once again it was Albus who stalked her mind, Albus whom she thought of as she mumbled endearments to a pair of blue eyes?

The pain in her ribcage had almost been a release from the madness that was beginning to cloud her brain. Now that it was reduced to a distant throbbing it could no longer block out the sight of Brian Potter, laughing half hysterically, looking at her with _familiarity, _rambling about things which no one but Albus could know-

"_My dear, my darling…"_

Her shiver shook the bed and made Aberforth look up. She smiled weakly and he brushed her cheek with one finger before returning to his paper. A galling sickness seemed to permeate her body.

Brian was seriously unbalanced, she tried to tell herself firmly. He was raving. Hearing his boyish voice calling her 'darling' should have been enough to convince her of that. The way he cried and then laughed… The madness in his eyes, almost passionate in its intensity… He was twelve years old and deeply disturbed. By Merlin, it was the most disturbing thing which had ever happened to her… Perhaps the whole episode had been some sort of fevered dream she had had between consciousness and oblivion…

Yet…

"_The photograph. The core. If you wish, you may test me under Veritaserum. A skilled Leglimens would also be able to confirm it."_

Such daring, such confidence. In some twisted way, it all made sense. The core _was _behaving as though there were two head teachers, and if Brian was indeed Albus-

Her fingernails dug into her palms. What was she thinking? Was she so easily deluded? Why did the doubt remain with her?

She had called Harry with the intention of telling him the whole thing - or the sensible version of the whole thing. Brian had developed a bizarre fixation on someone long dead and was clearly unbalanced. He needed help, he needed to be withdrawn from school in the hope of making a full recovery. He needed to have a long talk with Harry, to sort out where it had all gone wrong. He needed all of those things, but she-

-She had said nothing. Instead she had invented a reason to summon Harry. She had spoken at length about the core, and how she hoped the Aurors would be on standby in case of a further incident, and enquired as to how long the school would have to be closed for so as to bring the lethal mezrel count down - if the school would only be closed until then; the governors were bound to be unhappy. She had acted the part of the concerned Headmistress when thoughts far more selfish were dominating her.

Brian was a boy! A sadly deluded boy! Any further speculation was preposterous!

The photo… The photo seemed emblazoned on the ceiling above her; the likeness seemed to follow her eyes as they moved about the room, and Brian's laughter echoed in her ears. The likeness was certainly astonishing, but-

"_Do you believe in such coincidences?"_

No, no she did not. Coincidences as dramatic as that were _not _coincidences; there was some other force at work, and the only forces she believed in were human intelligence and the truth - only now they had collided. Now she had gone so far as to summon the boy, with no clue as to what she was going to say…

Aberforth's sigh brought her back to reality. He had laid his paper aside and was staring at her with eyes that were suspiciously watery.

"I just keep on thanking Merlin that you are all right," he whispered.

Warmth flared over the pain in her chest. Minerva clung to it, clung to her feelings for him as tightly as she dared. His tenderness, his vulnerability… He deserved better than a silly old woman still so attached to the past that part of her was willing to entertain such ridiculous notions…

Yet that part of her was persistent, endless pasting the photo in front of her and forcing her to remember the essay. She made a split-second decision: the only thing which would stop such a failure of intelligence was evidence which would prove it concretely. Veritaserum.

Right on cue, there was a knock on the door. Aberforth shot a glare at the door and bristled at the intrusion, but Minerva eased herself up the pillows.

"Aberforth, whilst I talk to Mr Potter, would you be so kind as to fetch me some Veritaserum from Slughorn? I know he always has a vial on him. I have to ask him some questions which he may not be entirely truthful in answering."

Curiousity swept over Aberforth's face but he nodded and brushed her cheek again as he got up. Feeling ill at what her mind told her was manipulation, she took a breath and clasped her hands together.

"Come in."

The door opened just as Aberforth reached it; he brushed past the figure in the doorway, and Minerva saw the boy shoot a half unhappy, half hostile look at the man. Then the door fell shut, and woman and boy were left staring at each other.

Her heart seemed to climb up into her mouth. The boy was white, and his blue eyes fixed so painfully on her that she found herself nestling backwards into the pillows. He was still without his glasses, she noted guiltily. Whether or not Brian was off his rocker, her behaviour had been unacceptable.

"Minerva."

She started and her eyes roved around the room… anything but meet the sapphire pair that dared hold so much knowledge… A shiver shot down her spine. In the brief moments she had looked directly at him, Brian's unspoilt face had held an _old _expression… an old _familiar _expression, an expression she had had aimed at her several times by a man whom she could not quite accept was dead…

"Have I… convinced you?"

Her gaze was dragged back to him as though he was a magnet. His face was unreadable, in the same way that Albus's had often been unreadable.

"I held you when you were a baby," she heard herself whisper.

She saw him nod, his jaw clenched. "I was not able to speak then."

"No," she agreed.

The silence stretched.

"Minerva-"

"I cannot believe you without concrete proof," she said, forcing the words out. Here was the admission that she might.

A muscle in his cheek twitched.

"Veritaserum," she said quietly. "I have just asked Aberforth to get some."

"Will you believe me if the Veritaserum confirms it?"

"Yes," she replied, and felt suddenly certain that the Veritaserum would _not _do anything of the sort.

"Very well." The boy walked over to the chair that Aberforth had vacated and sat down. Closer to, Minerva could see him squinting slightly. _Long-sighted, just as Albus was, _hissed her brain treacherously. Less characteristically, his hands twisted and fidgeted, as though some inner torture was increasing in strength. At last:

"You… and Aberforth…" His voice wobbled.

Was that distress? If he was not Albus, why? If he was, why? Evidence of mental instability..?

She let her eyes grow stony. He didn't noticeably move but she got the sense of him shrinking away from her.

The door eased open again. Aberforth was holding a vial, and moved towards the bed looking thoroughly irritated by Brian's presence. He placed the vial on the bedside table and leaned over, to brush his soft lips against Minerva's. Her pulse quickened and she cursed of her thoughts of betrayal. Brian's mouth moved into the shape of an upside-down U.

"There you are, my dear," Aberforth purred. The 'my dear' grated unpleasantly on Minerva's ears; images of both Albus and Brian collided. Her heart trembled. Why was everything so complicated, so absurd?

A strange urge to preserve the secrecy of the interview came over her. Could Aberforth possibly go and fetch her wand from reception? And he could update Rolanda and Poppy on her health? He could.

After he had left, she nodded towards the vial.

"I'm afraid I cannot reach it for myself… Take a sip… and perhaps we can stop this _silliness."_

"'Silliness…'" Brian closed his eyes in anguish. His hand shot out and Minerva saw his miniature Adam's apple bob up and down as he downed the whole vial. His face slackened into impassivity, but his eyes stared at her desperately. Now _that _wasn't an Albus-expression, Minerva thought half triumphantly. Behind him, the moon shone through the window and darkened him into a silhoette.

"Right." She cleared her throat. "Are you called Brian Potter?"

"Yes."

His eyes widened in apparent horror. A kind of cold relief swept through her.

"Well," she said stiffly. He was shaking his head, eyes moistening. The sight did not engender sympathy, but anger. "I suppose you thought you'd make a fool of me."

"No!"

She raised her eyebrows. Yes, perhaps that was true. Perhaps he was genuinely out of his mind, and believed what he said to be true.

"I'm afraid-"

He made an odd buzzing sound between his teeth in protest. The sapphire had turned to water.

"Perhaps you think I'm not asking the right questions, but-"

"Yes!"

Minerva frowned. What had she asked? She had asked whether Brian was _called _Brian Potter… but then everyone _called _him that… Just as everyone _called _Moody Mad-Eye. But no, she was being ridiculous…

"Who are you?"

The words tumbled out of his mouth.

"Albus Percival Wulferic Brian Dumbledore."

She fell back on the pillows.

For a few sickening moments she thought she would faint, but Brian - no, Albus - had rushed to her side and the sight of those blue eyes, those familiar blue eyes were enough to pull her back-

"Oh Merlin. Oh Merlin," someone was saying over and over. She suspected that it was herself.

Albus's mouth was working, but the Veritaserum would not wear off for a while; he could only respond, when she was incapable of thinking, let alone speaking…

Albus Dumbledore. Reborn into the body of a boy, but _alive. _By Merlin, _alive! _Should she scream with ecstasy? Or should she cry hysterically, continue to refuse to believe it? This was a dream, it had to be a dream - all was outside the realms of reality and possibility - surely her life had been given to that Muggle painter, Dali, to do with as was his want… All her wishes granted in one blinding moment of revelation!

But Aberforth! Oh Merlin, Aberforth…

"_My darling…"_

Could he have meant that?

No, it couldn't be true - she could never have held Albus in her arms as a baby… The greatest wizard in the world could never have been reduced to a boy…

She was gasping as though having surfaced from deep water. "_Is it true?" _

"Yes!"

She looked up in time to see his eyes twinkle like a pair of dancing stars…

"A-Albus…"

It was too much. Her vision swam with tears. Brian - no, Albus - laid a hand on her shoulder and gripped it - and she reached up and closed her hand around his, so tightly that she felt his bones creak… Their hands were locked together - they were joined, the man from beyond the Veil and the woman who had tried so long to draw him back from it.

His boyishness and the thought of Aberforth were the only things which prevented her from also drawing him into her arms. Breathlessly, she asked him questions as they came to her, disjointed and flung from a psyche which no longer knew the difference between fiction and reality.

"Fawkes… Is he with you?"

He was smiling now, his youthful face seeming to emit a radiance far greater than the moon outside. "Yes."

"How long have you known that you were… who you are?"

"Ever since I was born."

"H-how?"

"I have no idea."

She found herself laughing between gulps. "I n-never thought I'd hear you say that…"

Albus threw back his auburn mane and laughed. "No, I should say you wouldn't."

"Is the Veritaserum wearing off yet?" There was so much they needed to say to one another…

"No, sadly not."

"Why - why did you finally decide to tell me?"

"The instability of the castle's magic forced me to it… though I did want to, for so long. I told you with the intention of you somehow conveying what was wrong to those working to stabilise the core… if there is anything left to stabilise."

"I'm told the core did not explode completely," Minerva said vaguely. _He's here, _she was thinking, _he's here, right next to me, here, alive, _here… "If it had then we would probably all of us be dead. What do you think can be done about the core?"

"This is speculation… but I suspect that I need to resign or be sacked as Headmaster in order for the core to recognise a Headmistress." The words seemed irrelevant compared to the fact that he was Albus Dumbledore. "Forgive me for saying, my dear, but my mezrel count was always higher than yours… Hogwarts is trying to reject the wrong head teacher. I died whilst still Headmaster, meaning that when I returned-"

"I've m-missed you."

What an understatement! But he could never know the truth.

To her surprise, his eyes moistened again and his grip on her hand became tighter. It was not a question, so he could not yet respond, but his face held the same message.

The sound of footsteps outside the door made their hands spring apart, just before Aberforth entered, Minerva's wand in hand and with an expression of irritation that disappeared at the sight of her. Albus shrank back almost imperceptibly and Minerva felt something inside become raw with pain.

Albus was alive, and remained beyond her reach. The fire for Aberforth was there; she was the only obstacle to it being stoked higher. Her greatest wish had been granted, but it was absurd to hope for anything more. Besides, she loved Aberforth for more than his brother. She loved him for his hidden vulnerability, his innocence, the purity of his emotion…

She kissed him guiltily.

* * *

Three days passed before Brian was allowed to leave St Mungo's. The Healers had cleared him after they had run as much diagnostics as the 'young' wizard would allow; Albus knew that any full examination of his magical core would uncover the secret, something which he did not intend on going any further than Minerva. Luckily the Healers were easily reassured by Brian acting as energetic as possible, often conveniently being found out of bed or reading into the morning.

Harry, still resolutely mum on the subject of the 'personal good news' in spite of Brian's constant whinging, had brought in some new robes in the shade of purple that Albus slash Brian adored and he pulled off the white hospital gown in relief. His father's work as Chief Auror was not something which could be easily interrupted, and Ginny remained mysteriously absent, so Albus had been mainly left to his own devices – those devices mainly consisting of intense thought rather than anything substantial.

Another visit to Minerva had been forbidden rather brusquely by the Healer in charge of her ward, and so he found himself simply going over the conversation over and over, analysing her words and wishing that the exchange had not been so stunted by the Veritaserum. His mood varied with the weather outside; Minerva's belief in his identity had created a light inside him, a light which he felt must be shining through so brightly that he was half surprised that none of the Healers had noticed anything – but the image of her submitting gladly to Aberforth's attentions was one which came back to him unpleasantly during the night, settling lead into his stomach. The memory was always followed with nausea, nausea at himself for how much he found himself loathing the peaceful fulfilment on his brother's face.

How long had he hoped that that craggy visage would smooth its contours and display a smile? Decades amounting to more than a century, and now that that desire had finally been granted, he had the audacity to be resentful of it! Did he really wish loneliness on both Aberforth and Minerva? No, goodness, no.

Nonetheless, his emotions were undeniable. A paradise lost that had never been properly appreciated in the first place was not one which could ever be regained, especially given the circumstances, but - fool that he was - hope was what had surged within him once her belief seemed in reach. Hope now crushed. Telling Minerva offered no escape from 'languishing in another life.'

Fortunately, other arguably more important issues needed to be addressed. Gradually, information about what had happened at Hogwarts began to seep through; whispers from Rolanda and Poppy, regular and dissatisfied visitors to the Headmistress, had filled in the gaps and allowed him to know the full scale of the damage. The knowledge of the collapse of the Astronomy Tower was one which filled him with a strange unease – he could see a kind of dark irony in the terrible stories of students plunging to their deaths, just as he had so long ago. Was he the only one to make that link? Was he wrong even to consider what had happened in such a selfish way? No, it could not be helped – he knew exactly how it felt to tumble from that ungodly height. Granted, he had died as he had fallen, and had not had to know the horror of an impact on a distant earth, but the empathy he had made him reflect on the fate of students continuously, miserably.

One of those who had fallen to his doom had been a First-Year, he had discovered. Fuzzy pictures of Harry as a First-Year appeared in his mind: scruffy and thin, seemingly specifically designed to arouse paternal feelings. Boys that age were undoubtedly still children – their eyes still big in proportion to the rest of their heads, their skin unspoilt. Merlin, he still recalled how it had felt to discover Harry flat on his back beside the dead Quirrel. He could not help relating the ten dead students to the idea of ten dead Harrys, each one in a more tragic position than the last.

All because he and Minerva had stood in the same room.

Hogwarts was to be closed for the rest of year. The Fifth-Years would take their OWLs and the Seventh-Years would take their NEWTs in a room set aside by the Ministry whilst the castle was investigated and the core stabilised. The extended summer holiday was neither welcome nor uplifting; the reasons for it made the year end on a grim note, and, more personally, being away from Minerva whilst she was injured and having just revealed the truth was not an inviting prospect.

Sighing, he looked all around the bed, to see whether there was anything he had forgotten, and glanced at his watch. Harry was due to meet him and take him home by Floo in half an hour, but there was no sense in sitting in bed till the last minute.

"Brian!"

Eric was galloping down the corridor towards him, almost knocking over a large Fifth-Year lingering outside the ward, red hair seeming like blood against the white walls behind him. Albus felt a twinge of concern.

"Eric! What are you doing here?"

"Don't worry – they just kept me here and there wasn't even anything wrong with me! They thought I had core damage at first, because I was shaking like mad – but I was just shocked! Is it true that you were with Professor McGonagall when it happened?"

Blinking at the rush of words, Albus nodded. "Are you going home today?"

"Yes, my mum and dad are taking me back to France in a bit."

"France?"

Eric rolled his eyes. "Mum's gone all paranoid. She's been saying she wants to transfer me to Beauxbatons, but Dad beat her down."

"That's a relief."

"Yes." Eric's grin wavered. "Have you heard anything new about Dan?"

"I haven't anything at all about Dan. Is he okay?"

The other boy shook his head and bit his lip. "No, not really. He's been unconscious since… since it happened. They reckon his core was close to collapsing.

Brian's wince did not need to be feigned. A collapsed core was not only hideously painful, but lethal. "Is he here?"

"Yes… He's in a ward just a few minutes away." Eric bit his lip again and gave Brian a worried glance. "D'you… d'you think that they'll be able to open Hogwarts again?"

Albus sighed. "I don't know. I hope so… I think they're close to finding out what's wrong with the core. Professor McGonagall told me she had an idea about what it might be."

"That's good. But… I mean… those people who were killed… I mean, I saw it, you know. I was looking out of the window when the Astronomy Tower collapsed…"

Albus gave Eric a tentative pat on the back. Here he was again, at a loss for words. The young Weasley gave himself a shake.

"We might be able to sneak in and see Dan, if we're careful."

"All right."

They walked up the corridor in an awkward silence, halting outside a ward with a picture of a dandelion beside the door. The Healer's desk was empty. Both boys looked at one another and nodded, before sidling in.

The sight that met them was instantly depressing. The only bed that was occupied was Daniel's, and he clearly wasn't aware that he had visitors. He was lying still, and as white as the sheets around him, turned slightly on his side. The eyes were closed and the face was vacant. With another twinge, Albus spotted a bunch of flowers sitting on the table nearby, bearing a note signed 'Mum with lots of love xxx.'

"Daniel?" Eric said softly. Predictably, Daniel did not respond. Brian's friend sighed.

"He's still-"

_Whump. _

Both boys spun around. The ward door had closed behind a new visitor, a boy with straggly brown hair and pitch black robes that made him seem a blot against the wall. Albus recognised him as the Fifth-Year whom Eric had nearly knocked over earlier.

"We're sorry," said Eric quickly, moving towards the door. "We'll be going now-"

_"Crucio!"_

Albus heard himself let out a cry as the curse knocked him off his feet so that the white floor seemed to punch him on the nose. The older boy's wand had appeared seemingly from nowhere and had been aimed straight at him. Albus braced himself for the needle-stabbing pains which never came. His enemy's face twisted in a mixture of fear and rage, just as Eric rushed at him with an outstretched wand.

_"Petrificus Totalus!" _

Eric's limbs snapped together and Albus glimpsed his friend's rigid, frightened face as he scrambled to his feet-

_"Crucio!"_

Once again, the curse contrived to knock him off his feet rather than do real damage. Gasping, he whipped out his own wand-

_"Avada-"_

In those crucial moments, once again he seemed to see a flash of green and Snape's distorted face. Although by now doubting the Fifth-Year's willpower and capability, fear had him on his feet and putting a soundless Body-Bind on the boy within a second. The unknown assailant toppled to the floor and Albus stared at him, his heart-beat beginning to ease as reality reasserted itself and curiosity overtook his shock.

"Mmmm!"

"Sorry, Eric!"

He lifted the curse on the Weasley boy, and then turned back to his fallen foe, who had his eyes scrunched up in apparent horror. Questions flooded him. Who was this boy, and why did he feel the need to target Brian? For his target had certainly been Brian; Eric had been at his mercy but had been completely ignored.

"Wh… why?"

_Why indeed,_ thought Albus, keeping his eyes firmly on their prisoner but speaking to Eric out of the corner of his mouth.

"No idea."

Brian sounded unnaturally calm; he injected some more fear into his voice.

"I m-mean, why would he go after us?"

Eric shook his head dumbly. Albus thrust his hands in his pockets, and felt paper brush against his fingers. An memory came to him. _You are in danger. I cannot defend you directly, you must appeal to your father. Your enemy's name is Jonathan Blaine. _

Was _this_ Jonathan Blaine? And if so, then why on earth did someone feel the need to protect Brian? He let his gaze harden into a glare.

"I'm going to ask you some questions. I'll take the curse off your mouth so that you can answer them. Then I'm reporting the matter to one of the teachers. Now-"

He lifted the curse, again remembering too late that Brian seemed far too casual. He gave an inward sigh and shoved the matter to the back of his mind. Eric thought Brian rather eccentric anyway, and this was far more urgent.

"Who-" he began.

"Please let me go!" The boy had a whining voice. "It's not my fault - I was told to do it! Please, he'll kill me-"

"What? Who will?"

"I can't tell you!"

"Who are you?"

The Fifth-Year gulped and snivelled as though he was at least five years younger. "Ozzy Herrford. I'm in Slytherin." The last words were said sulkily, dripping a petty kind of pride.

"Why did you-"

The terrified eyes displayed a flicker of hatred. "You're Brian bloody Potter, aren't you?"

"You have something against my father?"

"No, the whole lot of you," Ozzy spat. "All of you idiots-"

"All of us? Gryffindors?"

"Them too!"

"I get the impression you're not acting alone. _Who'll_ 'kill you?'"

Ozzy's mouth became a malicious line. "A man in the woods," he hissed.

Ice shot down Albus's spine. A pit gaped in the ground before him, just as he recalled who the 'man in the woods' whom Harry had been hunting was… Snape's waxen and sallow face floated before him like a ghost. Could it be that Snape was trying to kill him, had somehow found out who he was and wanted to finish the job? Or was he acting out of spite against yet another Potter brat? To Albus's fury, hurt was the emotion trembling at the bottom of the pit. Why did he feel hurt? Had he still not accepted what had happened, that Severus - no, Snape - had been, and continued to be, a traitor?

No, he was jumping to conclusions. Would cold and exacting Snape have put his trust in such a pathetic specimen of a boy? And there was no proof that Ozzy's 'man in the woods' was the same as Harry's.

Tentatively, he locked eyes with his prisoner and reached out with his mind. His grasp slid over something smooth and impenetrable; the boy was a natural Occlumens - such that the secrets of his mind could only be revealed if he had the will to significantly damage him. Albus withdrew.

"Silencio!"

In the quiet, Rolanda's voice echoed down the corridor. Both boys levitated Ozzy out of the door, and almost into the arms of their astonished Flying instructor.

* * *

"Brian."

They had just arrived back home. Albus had omitted to tell Harry of the encounter with Ozzy, and so the Chief Auror's eyes were dancing with happiness - a joy oddly out of proportion to the circumstances of Brian's return. He laid a hand on his son's shoulder to stop him from retreating upstairs and instead steered him towards the living room.

"Harry? Brian?"

Ginny's voice called from within. Albus stepped resignedly forward, but Harry halted him in the doorway. Ginny was sat on the sofa, clutching a cup of tea, her flaming hair drenched in beads of light by the sun outside the window.

"Brian," Harry said again. Ginny was smiling at him, the same joy seeming to dance across the room and hug him. She laid one hand on an unusually curvaceous stomach.

Albus stared at it. Harry had taken a deep breath, but he already knew what he was going to say, already had superimposed the scene with old memories-

_One day, when Albus could proudly boast that he was five and a half, Mother and Father called the boy into the living room and sat him on the sofa. Albus could tell that something serious was happening, as Mother was smiling in that way that meant she was trying to reassure him about something. Mother took his hand and laid it on her round stomach.  
_

_"Albus, we've got something very important to tell you." She smiled at his apparent confusion. "Soon, you will have a little brother." _

_He was so shocked that for a moment, he said nothing at all. Then he asked: _

_"Will you buy him in a shop?" _

_"No, no-" Mother said, sharing an amused glance with her husband. "The baby's in here." She patted his hand on her stomach. _

_Albus was stunned. Mother fought laughter as he stared with big eyes at her belly. Father was too busy gazing hungrily at her stomach to notice his reaction. _

_"When he's born and a bit older, you will be able to play with him," assured Mother. _

_He considered this, and then grinned. "A little brother!" he said breathlessly. Then he stopped, a small frown on his face. "He won't be nasty, will he? Only, in my book, the King's brother-" _

_Mother laughed. "No, Albus, he'll be a nice little brother."_

Harry's hand tightened on his shoulder, and Ginny's soft brown eyes bored into him. Life really was starting all over again, he thought dreamily, really it was. Was Aberforth a 'nice little brother?' Merlin, he wished it were so…

"Brian, in a few months time, you will have a little brother."

**A/N: Saiyanwizardgurl - well done! One note: if people found Minerva's need for evidence frustrating, I'm sorry but she strikes me as someone very logical. I reckoned she needed the illogical truth practically spelt out for her.** **Hope you enjoyed!**


	18. A Whirlwind Summer

**A/N: Thanks for all the wonderful reviews!** **Oh, and curious as to how I picture young Albus? This was drawn before I wrote the chapter with the photograph in it, but I thought of this when I described it. Remove the spaces - apocalypticat. deviantart. com, and it's my featured deviation. **

Summer came reluctantly, slowly. The sun which peeped its fiery face through Brian's curtains did so with a light which at first was resolutely cold, making the outside world shine deceptively with a warmth that was not there. The nights were strangely humid, and several times the Potter family awoke to a mist which did not clear until noon. It was as though nature itself was taking a few gasping breaths, leaving out-of-season condensation on the window panes and making the clouds come in clumps. The turmoil did not go unobserved; often an auburn-haired boy could be seen at his bedroom window, blue eyes turned to the sky.

The extended summer holidays stretched before Albus like a mountain to be ascended - for little other purpose than to plant a metaphorical flag at the top. There would be excitement and boredom and sorrow, all to be conquered for the reward of seeing something he should not have been able to see: the birth of Harry Potter's son - a genuine next generation, who would perhaps have Harry's eyes and Ginny's nose, who would come into the world fresh and untainted.

That anticipation buoyed him up - how could it not? The Boy-Who-Lived could truly live now, live a life where 'to live' did not mean 'to survive.' What cloud could darken such a blessing, such a wish fulfilled not only for his 'parents' but for himself? The sight of Ginny growing rounder, more motherly, was one which proclaimed everything that the war had been waged for.

Yet - and yes, indeed, there _was _a yet…

Yet the circumstances were wrong, completely twisted out of the shape they should have been, and the mountain he was climbing was without a peak. Minerva was lost to him, would remain lost to him - as would everything else connected with his previous existence. He was denied the chance of a fatherly congratulations to Harry, and Brian would not be watching from a distance as the Headmaster played with the newborn. The temptation to see the coming child as a kind of 'compensation' for what had occurred was one which was too uneasily indulged in; the Potters thought they would have two sons instead of just one.

He could feel another realisation hardening within him as the weeks passed, one which had been there for twelve years but had been smothered in a false hope. Grimly, Albus knew that he had done everything he could, had seen everything he needed to, had accomplished all there was to accomplish. Where now? This new life before him was a road he had already walked, made even more unwelcome by how connected Brian was to the Headmaster's old friends. He did not want to see Harry and Ginny grow old, see their hair grow white and their bodies grow haggard. There was no desire at all in him to see his Minerva decay further whilst becoming ever closer to his brother. Did he wish to be present at the wedding?

That idea stung. But-

_Stupid old fool, didn't you see how she looked at him?_

Some Muggles believed in ghosts, Albus knew. They often said something to effect of a ghost having 'unfinished business.' By the definition, wasn't he also a ghost, in more ways that one? Unfinished business from beyond the Veil, and unfinished business from the spring. He felt as though one of the most important episodes of his entire life had been cut short and left with threads hanging. The secret was out, and Hogwarts had quite literally shaken with it, but here Brian was, at home as though nothing had happened…

And Harry's boy was coming into the world… Bittersweet - Brian's twelve years had become bittersweet in the way that old age was bittersweet, and that was _without _considering-

_Dear Albus,_

He had only been home for two days when the letter arrived. The first two words had ended in a blot, as though the writer had paused and rested their quill on the parchment, as though wondering how to continue.

_Dear Albus, _

_I must confess that I am still astonished by it all, and know I cannot begin to understand how you must have felt, hiding yourself for so long. Yet you were a very convincing First-Year - excepting the essay, of course. Forgive me for being so stern with you; I felt that Brian's 'cheating' had to be nipped in the bud. _

_The experts studying the core came and consulted with me yesterday. They wanted a description of what had happened, and during our meeting I managed to suggest that the problem could be due to 'the unexplained failure' of Hogwarts to register the death of a previous head teacher. They seemed to take to this idea, and explained that Hogwarts appeared to believe that you were alive, and came to the conclusion themselves that you would effectively have to be sacked. I believe they intend to do this in a few weeks time, when the instability should have died down a little. I hope you aren't too upset about this. _

_Both the Aurors and the experts can only enter the castle for a limited amount of time at the moment; the mezrel level is apparently so dangerously high that they need shielding to protect their own cores. I enquired about the damage, and it seems that all of the portraits in Hogwarts are immobilised, and Dippet's portrait is completely destroyed - it seems that the remainder of his magic in the main core was the weakest. There is some speculation that he might be able to be restored. Virtually all windows are smashed, two House tables have been overturned and some of the suits of armour are no longer animated. The cost will run into the thousands, if not into tens of thousands. _

_Even more worryingly, Aurors investigating the Slytherin Common Room and dormitories apparently discovered signs of Dark magic, with several books of questionable nature being found under various beds and illegal amplification circles inscribed on the walls. I was already aware of some sort of problem in the Slytherin house as Slughorn came to me having found a copy of The Dark Manifesto in the Common Room. _

_Do you know of the book? Harry may not have informed you, but following the end of the war, two copies of a manuscript were discovered, a transcribed copy in the possession of a leading Death Eater and the original in Riddle House. The original author seems to have been Voldemort himself, and the book contains an account of his rebirth as well an encyclopoedia of various Dark arts. Naturally the manuscripts were confiscated, but the original copy went missing and various transcriptions occasionally turn up on the black market. The number confiscated by the Auror department had increased in recent years; there seems to be some sort of 'Neo-Dark' movement growing popular amongst the younger generations. I would appreciate your thoughts on this; I am at a loss as to what action to take. _

_I should be out of St Mungo's in a week. _

_I have missed you. _

_Minerva_

So many words, and yet only a few of them mattered to him. _I have missed you… _Somehow, flying in the face of logic and evidence, their relationship had changed. His wretched optimism viewed the bulk of the letter - the business, the school, the profession, the responsibility - as cursory compared to the first paragraph and the last few words.

…_I cannot begin to understand how you must have felt…_

They had never been so open before - not on the subject of emotion. There had been friendly banter, of course, but the landscape of emotion had remained uncharted territory. Minerva had never enquired as to his _feelings _about anything unprofessional before… But then, all his conversations with her since his return had not been normal-

"_WHO… WHO HAD YOU DO THIS?"_

"_Albus is dead! Merlin knows I've t-tried to deny it, but it's true! He died nearly twenty years ago!"_

_"Albus n-never called me his darling."_

"_A-Albus…" _

"_I've m-missed you."_

The words. The tears. The photographs. The way her hand had gripped his at St Mungo's. That first scream of anger, almost as though she thought someone would mention him with the intention of hurting her. That second cry, as if she had had a terrible time getting over his death. Those little mentions, as if she thought it was important what he thought of her.

Why? No, he did not dare hope; there was Aberforth to remember…

_My dear, _

_I hope you are doing well and that you will be out of St Mungo's in no time at all. Your urge to cull Brian's apparent deceit is perfectly understandable; I would have taken the same view myself. As for the core, it is entirely necessary that…_

So he found himself doing the same, only this time he was smothering something real whereas he had simply read the non-existant in Minerva's letter. He prattled on and on about the core, and about Slytherin, suggesting that the Slytherins be confronted directly and forced to own up, and informing her of the notes about Jonathan Blaine and Ozzy's attack. He enquired after her life-

_How have you been, these last twenty years?_

Roughly translated as: _tell me why you've looked so ill and miserable. _

And, of course, another essential question: _How did the war end?_

And: _That photo album, my dear… may I ask why?_

He was tempted to sign it 'with love,' but such foolishness would just confuse her. Fawkes took it and vanished in a flash of flame, and the waiting began again.

So the letters began to flow. She agreed with his suggestions, glossed over the first question and dodged the last, saying something very unMinerva-ish about how her health had _declined with age, _and failing to mention the photo album at all. Luckily, she was less reticent about how the war had ended:

_Harry took Voldemort through the Veil, and returned without him. _

Such a demure sentence barely conveyed the struggle and pain it had undoubtedly required, but the essential fact was there. The Veil! Of course - now he knew of it, the simplicity was obvious! He felt another strange connection with Harry: both of them had been through death…What had Harry seen, Albus wondered. What had Harry glimpsed beyond the Veil? Sirius? His parents? Himself?

She also shed some light on the mysterious Blaine:

…_I believe he is a Fifth-Year Slytherin, and was found in the Forbidden Forest along with Ozzy Herrford, gallivanting with the assembled Dark wizards whom Harry and the Aurors confronted. He has been in trouble ever since he first came to Hogwarts, and has been sent to me several times to explain his rudeness to staff. _

Fortunately for Brian, the Chief Auror and his wife were far too preoccupied with making preparations for the coming little brother to notice the flurry of letters between their 'son' and some unknown companion. Albus was free to talk about nothing with Minerva for as long as he wished, even though the nothingness was terrible. They talked of Hogwarts, the faculty, the students, the war (carefully avoiding any mention of a certain Potion Master's role) and Transfiguration. One exchange, lasting over a week, was devoted solely to musing over the personalities of various professors, with Minerva voicing her irritation over Martha Read and amusing him with the tale of her rival's discovery of Brian's 'academic peak.' Yet it was not _completely _nothing; Albus made sure of that. He would give Minerva what he could - his feelings, his true emotions about unrelated things.

_You asked me how I have felt, being imprisoned in an identity which is not mine. The answer is just about the worst which words can convey… The feeling of deceiving Harry is one which gnaws at me… The worst has undoubtedly been the inability to express myself to anybody, a problem now thankfully solved. _

She wrote, letting him know that she was out of St Mungo's and now staying at the Leaky Cauldron until she could be allowed back into Hogwarts. Albus knew that Harry would not allow Brian a trip up to London by himself, and so simply continued writing. At one point, Minerva's owl arrived carrying a parcel, which turned out to contain some of his old Transfiguration and alchemy research journals.

_Dear Albus, _

_I found these in your personal chambers after your death. I wondering if you wanted them back again to continue the research on. _

_Forgive me my curiosity, but I flicked through and was very interested. Your notes seem to suggest a link between the Transmutation Matrix and alchemy, not a link which had ever occurred to me before._

_Hoping you are well,_

_Minerva_

Brian's soft fingers turned the creased pages tentatively, nostalgically. A far older hand had drawn these diagrams, had written so enthusiastically of experiments and observations. Snape had cut the research short - the writing in the last book stopped mid-paragraph, next to a diagram that was half-drawn.

So he plunged himself back into his research, covering everything up with intellectual discussion and debate, rambling on and on to Minerva about alchemical processes and Transfiguration as a mirror to the Great Work, etcetera, etcetera. Why had he bothered writing about feelings when nothing could ever come of them? This was his only purpose left, and the only thing he had a right to talk about. Yes, Harry and Ginny fortunately left Brian free to bury his nose in obscure books ordered from Flourish and Blott's, not looking closely enough to see what they were.

Less fortunately, the familial excitement did not quite destroy Harry's memory, and Albus one day found himself in the middle of a very awkward conversation.

"Brian," the Chief Auror said seriously across the breakfast table. "You never told us what had upset you."

Ginny looked up from her boiled egg and fixed Brian with a look of concern. Harry pushed his toast aside and clasped his hands together, peering over his interlocked fingers in a way so reminiscent of the late Headmaster that Albus blinked.

"What?" he asked.

"Madam Pomfrey wrote to us-"

Albus couldn't prevent a groan. He had hoped that the core nearly exploding had provided sufficient distraction from Brian's little troubles for him never to be questioned on the subject.

"We're very concerned," broke in Ginny. "She gave us the impression that you're dwelling on things that happened before you were born, which you shouldn't have to worry about. Brian, have you read something about the war which worried you?"

Albus made Brian bite his lip whilst thinking for an adequate excuse. It was hard to know precisely what Poppy had told the Potters, and he had to make sure that his excuse was rock solid so as to prevent any further enquiry. Harry's gaze was imperturbable and it was clear that he would not let the matter drop without an answer.

"Madam Pomfrey said you mentioned Snape," said Ginny helpfully. Harry stiffened. "If you're worried about him-"

An idea came to him. Albus took a deep breath as though about to plunge into something deeply unpleasant and deliberately avoided Harry's eyes in an impersonation of a very anxious pre-teen.

"Well…" Albus made Brian's voice low and faltering. "The reason why we're famous is because of the war… but Dad - Dad said he didn't want to tell me about it until I was older. I was just - just curious-"

He heard Harry sigh but continued.

"-So I just… had a look around… for some books about it. I can't remember what it was called… but I read it… and it was about S-Snape… It was really horrible. I-I just keep on having nightmares, about how he killed-"

"Brian."

Albus turned his eyes back towards Harry, who had gone slightly pale, and was looking sadly past Brian's left ear, as though he could see something deeply disturbing behind it. Ginny had laid one hand on his shoulder.

"Do you understand now? Why I did not tell you?"

His 'son' nodded and looked chastised.

"I - I still find it hard to talk about. But perhaps it was wrong of me not to tell you - you were bound to go looking on your own, and that's turned out to have had far worse results than if I had simply told you directly. I'll get you some Dreamless Sleep potion on my way home tomorrow. I don't suppose Fawkes can really help you with something like this."

"No. He just makes me think of it." Albus paused. "The Astronomy Tower-"

"-Was where it happened. And it's gone now."

Brian's hands seemed to curl into fists all by themselves. "He was so stupid!"

The thought had burst out without the intervention of his brain. Yet it was true; right now he felt a burning hot hatred against the stupid old man who had refused to see the truth-

"It said that people warned him about Snape several times and yet he still-"

"He was _not _stupid," said Harry wearily, angrily. "Don't ever think that of him, Brian. He was just too bloody good for this world. He believed in trust, and it's not his fault that Snape didn't. Don't ever say that he was stupid."

Tears pricked his eyes. Minerva's face floated before him. "Emotionally-"

"What would you know about it?"

The table jerked as Harry stood up, and Albus glimpsed a pair of furious emerald eyes before the Chief Auror strode from the room. Ginny stared after him and then soundlessly began to clear the table.

The anger, however, did not clear for several days.

* * *

July-

Harry Potter took five long strides forwards, stopped, turned around and then took another five. An odd feeling of déjà vu hung over him; this was the same excitement and fear that was pounding in his stomach, and the only difference was that this time he was not alone in his anxiety; Brian was sat tensed on a nearby chair, next to a disgustingly relaxed Ron.

"She'll be fine, mate," Ron said again, seeming almost bored. "I said it last time, didn't I? And wasn't I right?"

Harry made no reply and continued pacing. He sensed Brian's eyes following him around the room. Guiltily, he realised that he should be saying something encouraging to him, but there was no sense in saying something which he himself was not sure of.

"Hermione couldn't come," his friend added. "She's looking after Alanna."

"No worries," Harry responded tonelessly.

Alanna was Ron and Hermione's daughter, and she was only four years old but already the apple of Hermione's eye. Harry had a feeling that Alanna - conceived belatedly as her parents finally got their careers under control - was destined to turn into another Hermione; she was already advanced for her years and the way she stomped determinedly around the Burrow reminded observers of her mother. Hermione had resigned her leadership of both S.P.E.W. and the Giant Rights Association in order to further her next campaign: her daughter.

"Dad, she'll be fine."

Brian's voice worsened the guilt; shouldn't _he _be the one spouting reassurance - especially when his son looked so pale and troubled? He opened his mouth to say something to the effect that he knew, and that Brian shouldn't worry, but was interrupted by the thatch-haired Healer marching into the room.

"Mr Potter, Master Potter, Mr Weasley-"

Harry and Brian were past the Healer and rushing down the corridor before Ron had even moved. The Chief Auror kept an eye on his son as he walked; the last time he had walked down this corridor, there had been no boy beside him-

It was just like before: the ward was blindingly white, and Ginny was looking at him with eyes which had become deep maternal wells. One of the Healers was washing a small body in the basin.

The Healers and the ward faded; the only things which mattered were Ginny, Brian and that beautiful pink creation…Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Brian staring in wonderment, with one of those 'adult' expressions on his face, one of deep emotion and happiness…

This baby screamed. The cry seemed to drive itself right through Harry's skull and out the other side, but he smiled. There would be none of the worry that there had been with Brian.

The Chief Auror moved forwards and clasped his new son in his arms, whilst his other son moved backwards, grinning in a way which suggested tears. Yet it was not just the little brother, it was something which Harry could not know, a set of words which hung inside his firstborn's head:

_PS. I may not be able to reply for a while, as Aberforth is taking me to…_

* * *

Paris. He had taken her to the City of Love.

Aberforth was by no means vain, but he had spent that morning in front of the mirror, trying on his best robes and attempting to tame his hair and beard into some semblance of sleekness. After deciding on one set of robes - periwinkle blue - he had packed the rest; they were going for two weeks, two weeks in the City of Love.

He would take her up the Eiffel Tower, and they would eat every night in the best of restaurants. At night, her divine face would be lit with candlelight, and he would ensure that if she were to die, she would die drowned in roses, petals curling themselves in her hair.

They were staying at the L'idylle Royal Hotel, the best wizarding hotel in Paris, where live bands sung the guests into merriment and where all the bed-covers were satin red, romantic red. He had got them a suite of rooms, with separate beds - there was no need to leap into things; he quite understood her nervousness, and anyway the beds could easily be united into one if need be-

This would be their first night in one room together. A pleasurable shudder went through him. He would be able to see her sleeping, and watch her wake up, hair all tousled and face all flushed-

"Aberforth… I honestly don't know how to thank you."

Her voice brought him back to the present. They were in their rooms - one room the bedroom, another a living room and the third the bathroom. Minerva was unpacking, her suitcase on her bed. They had only just arrived, as he had decided that a romantic broom flight would be preferable to the Floo or a Portkey. Merlin, it had been wonderful. She had been sat in front of him, his arms around her waist…

"It's nothing," he said. "And there's no need to thank me, either."

She looked up at him shyly. Aberforth noted dreamily that her hair was not in a bun for once, instead it was loose, tumbling over her shoulders like a river. How strange; he never used to think like this. Life was no longer all darkness and drudgery.

"I was thinking we could go to a restaurant. Perhaps-"

He stopped; she had just found the roses he had placed beside her pillow. She picked them up and held them close, and suddenly looked as though she was about to burst into tears. He was by her side in a flash, drawing her into his arms.

"I'm sorry," she said in his ear. "I'm being stupid. You've been so lovely-"

"Me? Lovely?" He ran his fingers through her hair. "No, _you _are lovely."

The thought came to him that perhaps there was something else, though. Throughout the flight she had seemed distracted and trouble by something, and surely a bunch of roses shouldn't make a woman go all watery-eyed? No… he was just being paranoid - she loved him, she'd said so-

He kissed her, and found he could not stop. She was kissing back, curling her hands in his beard-

"Aberforth…"

He opened his eyes. Minerva's eyes were round, and he realised he had slid one hand into her robes without thinking. He withdrew it.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry… I know - I know you're not ready-"

"It's all right," she whispered, and suddenly it was.

He cupped her face in his calloused hands and looked at her, shaking his head.

"I still don't understand how you can love me."

Her eyes became watery again.

* * *

The summer had been a whirlwind one. After Paris - painful, wonderful Paris, with the fumbling love she had felt guilty about every time she had expressed it, and the almost helpless way in which Aberforth's eyes had followed her every move - the weeks had alternated between paperwork and dates. Roses had flooded her room at the Leaky Cauldron to the extent that it had become a running joke with the cleaner, and Minerva found herself dreaming of Albus's face turning into Aberforth's and back again, in a bizarre summary of the whole mess.

For it was a mess - not only her office, which she was sitting in, but also her feelings. Albus remained beyond her reach, and she could not be toying with Aberforth's feelings when it was plain that they were reciprocated, but, nevertheless, Albus continued to haunt her. There was nothing to be done about it, so she tried to mentally shove one brother away whilst drawing the other closer. Her success was debatable.

Her emotions were also being constantly tested. She still remembered the strain of watching the termination of Albus's contract with Hogwarts-

"…_And we remove from him his title, his office and the spirit of Hogwarts, and confer them fully on Minerva McGonagall…"_

Ceremony had had to have been observed in order for the magic to work. The experts had stood on guard inside the glowing Core Chamber whilst the Board of Governors, Minerva, and a Ministry official performed the rite. She had been forced to watch as the blue of his magic died suddenly, abruptly, eternal evidence against a sin he had not committed, just as the pain in her chest died. The castle had shaken gently, and that had been all.

She heaved a sigh, and looked around the office unhappily. The patch of wall where Dippet's portrait had hung was blasted and burnt. The rest of the portraits - now awake and as healthy as anybody could make them - were jittery and nervous, as were the ghosts and the House guardians. The windows had been repaired and the House tables righted, but little could be done for Pomona's ruined plants or for Slughorn's wasted potions. Her predictions had been right: the cost would run into thousands and thousands.

Term was starting two weeks later than usual, and yet she had only been allowed to return to her office a week before. All was chaos, as the teachers rushed around trying to repair or order the things they needed, and even Sybil had complained little, there simply not being time to do so. However, had the Divination professor been present in Minerva's office, there would certainly be a cause to complain: a letter from Aberforth was lying on the desk, arranging for them to meet up the weekend after term started, and a single red rose was lying beside it.

Minerva tried to blot it out and concentrate on the invoice in front of her, but the scarlet continued to intrude. She flung down her quill and gazed out of the window, reflecting…

_I hope you had a good time with Aberforth. _

An innocent phrase, and there was no need to suspect that it wasn't genuine. Yet the way he had chosen to set it out as a separate paragraph, and the way that that letter had been short and almost brusque…

Albus's behaviour had never made much sense to her, but everything he had said since his 'rebirth' seemed utterly incomprehensible. During all the decades she had known him before his death, she had never once seen him cry, yet he had appeared perpetually close to doing so in their recent conversations.

"'_Silliness…'"_

He had looked so hurt when she had said that…

His last letter also lay on her desk, as yet unanswered. She had replied to most of it, but had halted when it came to addressing the last paragraph:

_Perhaps you remember me asking you about that photo album? Well you never answered the question, my dear. _

She could never answer that question. She could never tell him about anything.

Fawkes crooned from the window sill. He flew across and landed on the desk, sending paper scattering. Minerva buried her face in his golden feathers, and heard the bird's heartbeat racing next to her ear.

"I still love him."

* * *

Slytherin House returned in two factions that year, yet both mumbled with fear when they returned to their Common Room and dormitories. The amplification circles, and those dark leather-bound books - both were gone.

"We're in trouble now," breathed a Sixth-Year nervously. "Merlin, it won't be school rules, it'll be the law-"

"Oh shut up," someone else said. "We'll just get the stuff all over again, and blow school anyway. It's been lying to us for decades - why should we be ashamed?"

"I just don't see why the whole House has to suffer because of you pack of weirdoes-"

He stopped; a wand had pressed against his throat. There was a hissing sound, as someone else began to redraw the circles, and a rustle, as a poster was hung up at the top of stairs leading to the boy's dormitories.

Jonathan gave the sneering white face and mad red eyes a salute before he went to bed.

* * *

**A/N: ARGH ARGH ARGH. I beg forgiveness and promise you that the next chapter will be better than this. **


	19. Man And Woman

**A/N: Here's another update for you - a long one! I hope that this chapter will go some way towards explaining the point of the last; I'm painfully aware that the last one came across as filler. No insult taken about the movie-thing, it's my fault for not going to the cinema often enough!**

* * *

"So, how was it?"

She had only just returned to her private chambers, and the sight of Rolanda Hooch, ensconced in armchair and grinning widely, made Minerva feel even more flustered than she already was. She felt the blood rush to her face; the roses in her hands were all but blocking her friend from view.

"Tea, Rolanda?"

The roses were deposited in the nearest vase, and she made some effort to tame her windswept hair. Freeing it from its bun had seemed entirely appropriate some hours before, but in front of a colleague it felt embarrassing, even obscene. The Headmistress tried to don her professional face with apparently little success; Rolanda's beam grew wider.

"'Tea, Rolanda?' Is that all you have to say about your night with a certain gentleman?"

The first week of term had passed extraordinarily quickly, for all the problems that had arisen. Firstly, Martha Read's usefulness had ceased as soon as term began; she had immediately shut herself away in her chambers, sending only a cursory note to say she was ill. More importantly, Slughorn, having dared to poke his head into the Slytherin Common Room, had reported the appearance of a poster depicting Voldemort with understandable alarm, and she had made pains to mention Jonathan Blaine to him, that she "had reason to suspect" him to be trouble. The whole week, quite apart from replying to the blustering letters of the governors and the worried owls from parents, had been spent in lengthy consultation with Slughorn and the less hysterical members of staff, deciding what to do about Slytherin.

The concept was enough to make her sigh.. In some ways, it seemed as though she had spent all her life deciding what to do about Slytherin, however one looked at it. The House was alienated, ashamed, cut off - susceptible to any strange crazes and flights of fitful pride. Slughorn's power over them was doubtful; the Slug Club had decreased in size, as though it was no longer considered fashionable to be in attendance. Confrontation was inevitable, but the precise handling of it was something to be considered. Jonathan Blaine himself seemed blameless; she had no evidence against him apart from anonymous letters sent to a twelve year-old boy.

Albus. Now that was the greatest weight on her mind, great enough to keep her thinking of Aberforth's weekend meeting for hours at a time, great enough to make her awkward and nervous in front of Rolanda, great enough to make the very smell of roses almost unbearable-

"Minerva? How did it go? Are you all right?"

Rolanda was eyeing her with sudden concern; she had been so unfocussed this past week… She blinked, and resumed making the unasked for cup of tea.

"Very pleasantly," she said shortly.

"'Pleasantly?'" Rolanda repeated incredulously. "Goodness, there was me thinking he was a knight in shining armour! But if he was only 'pleasant…'"

"He's a real gentleman," the Headmistress protested. "He was very entertaining all evening - no, not _that _way, Rolanda," she added as the flying instructor waggled her eyebrows wickedly. She smiled; in some ways her friend had never grown up.

"Well, then - aren't you going to say anything more about it?"

"Very well. We dined at the Merlin's Orb - perhaps you know it? He was perfectly dashing the entire time, and at least gave the impression of finding some of what I was saying interesting."

Rolanda rolled her eyes, and took the proffered cup of tea whilst shaking her head in an exaggerated way. "I'll take that to mean that he was enchanted, and unable to keep his eyes off you. Not surprising, if that's what you wore," she added, nodding approvingly at Minerva's fitted blue robes.

The Headmistress ignored her, and curled one hand around the golden phoenix at her neck. In truth, Aberforth had seemed somewhat less than enchanted - rather distracted to the point of singeing his beard in the candle between them. He had spoken in fits and starts, and had chosen some rather odd topics of conversation-

"How do you think a man should show what he feels?" he had asked suddenly, nervously, gazing across the table with clouded eyes.

Unusual for anybody, let alone the reserved Aberforth… But no, he had long since ceased to be reserved around her… She hadn't known what he meant.

"I mean… do you think he should be very private about it?"

"No," she had said at once, burying her confusion. "I think he should be as public as possible. Being private about it almost suggests that he is ashamed."

Yet the ambiguity of it all remained with her. Exactly what had been discussed was hard to pin-point, and it had only served to make her feel still more uneasy. Her thoughts persisted in their rebellion against circumstances, dwelling on Albus being alive far more than on Aberforth being in love. Would her mind ever accept the difference between what was possible and what was not?

She forced the unease away, and returned her focus to Rolanda, who was now smiling mistily and fumbling inside one of her pockets.

"I'm so happy for you," she said quietly. "I can't think of anything better that could have happened. Minerva, I honestly don't think I can ever really know you; I thought you would dither far longer than this."

The Headmistress laid aside her stick and sank into the other armchair. "Yes… I suppose you could say I've rushed into it-"

"Oh no! It's about time you rushed into _something! _Especially when it's something as wonderful as this. You should have seen Poppy the other day, when she got the message. And of course, when I told the students about it - not _all _about it of course - they were soon buzzing about it. It's a fantastic idea. I'm ordering Rosmerta's best punch-"

Minerva felt her smile become fixed. "Rolanda-"

"-Now don't say that that would be a bad example to a students - _you're _the one who decided to include them in the first place-"

"Rolanda-"

"-Slughorn wants to invite half the Ministry-"

"-I don't-"

"-You've been so secretive about it-"

"-Precisely _what _have you told the students?"

Surely this wasn't what it sounded like. Surely Rolanda hadn't been discussing the Headmistress's personal relationships with students! Were the Houses now sitting in judgement? But no, Rolanda wouldn't have-

Her friend looked at her with wide, puzzled eyes. "Just about Saturday, that's all."

"Saturday?"

The flying instructor gave her a frown. "Minerva, there's no point in being secretive _after _we've been informed about it!"

"About _what?"_

The frown dissolved into an expression of disbelief. "You don't know? Surely, he would have-" She cut herself off, as if a thought had struck her. Mischief swept across her face - and the next moment, Rolanda was talking about the weather.

"I'm surprised how hot it's been recently. Very good weather for flying. I was thinking about moving the Flying lessons forward-"

"Rolanda!"

"Hm?" she responded innocently.

Alarm was beginning to fray the edges of Minerva's mind. The sensation of being in the dark about something was extremely unwelcome, and Rolanda's previous words seemed to be making less and less sense. They had been speaking about Aberforth… surely Aberforth wasn't planning something which involved the students?

"Don't change the subject! What were you saying about Saturday?"

Her friend's face twitched, as though she was suppressing a grin. The hawk-eyes flashed with some momentous piece of knowledge. "Well, I really must be off-"

"_Rolanda!"_

"-Thank you for the tea-"

"Rolanda Hooch, you come back here this instant and-"

The tapestry swung shut, and Minerva found herself quite literally sitting in the dark.

* * *

Silence.

The silence of the library was a heavy, gravid one, bound up with the inscrutable silence of books and dust. Dim light reflected off the individual motes in the air as they swirled from unknown movements. It was a silence which dominated everything, overriding the scratching of Madam Pince's quill and the rustling of turned pages. The late hour only seemed to emphasise the feeling of being under the power of something strong and imperturbable, and perhaps that was why only one student was to be found there: a pale boy with old-fashioned spectacles and a shock of auburn hair.

Albus turned the pages of the tome before him, wearily, without interest. Tranfiguration's hold on him had never been weaker, and alchemy was without its attractions. There was some advantage in knowing that alchemy was so obscure as to be judged harmless, and so in the reach of any student, but all he could think of when seeing engravings of the Alchemical Wedding was Aberforth and Minerva, Sol and Luna, Aberforth and Minerva, the Hermaphrodite, Aberforth and Minerva as one, sinking into one another as one day they surely must...

How well a distracted mind warped the irrelevant into unnecessary pain! He closed the book and stared unseeingly at the wall. It seemed to gaze right back at him with equal emptiness. What was there to be _done? _He couldn't stay at Hogwarts, not after the end of school; there would be no joy in it at all. Perhaps-

"Brian?"

Eric's sudden appearance beside him made him start. Looking up, he saw that the Weasley was looking rather scared and concerned; he tried to arrange his face into a more normal expression.

"Hello."

Eric stared at him, but then grinned. "Typical. You're such a book-worm. I knew you'd be in here, missing all the news!"

"Shhh, Madam Pince-"

"-Is gone. You didn't notice her go? Too busy reading, I guess."

"What news am I missing, then?" Albus tried to look vaguely interested.

"A ball!" Eric made a face. "_Everyone's _invited."

"A Yule Ball?"

"No, I don't think so. It's just a ball. Hooch came round all the Houses a few hours ago, putting up notices about it on all the walls. It's this Saturday. There's going to be a live band, and everything."

Inwardly bored, Albus forced Brian's face into an expression of alarm. "But that's late notice! I haven't got any dress robes! And - and we're not supposed to-?"

"Have a date?"

Eric appeared equally alarmed at the idea.

"Merlin, I hope not! I know some of the older years are - but then, Mark's going out with Anna - he told me."

"We don't have to do what Mark does-"

There was a creak as the library door opened, and Albus dropped his voice lower, suspecting Madam Pince back on the prowl. He opened his mouth to say something more, but then realised that the footsteps were those of several people, not one. Eric's eyes went past him and widened-

"_Avada Kedavra!"_

Green light flashed blindingly, and something hit him hard in the stomach, sending him flying off his chair. There was a crash as a bookcase tumbled over, and a scream of laughter. Cruel fingers wrenched his hair - another curse was mumbled, and he heard Eric give a cry-

"_Crucio!"_

This time, the pain was real, stabbing, obscuring of all else. His body went limp as someone rammed a fist into his nose. Blinking away green spots, and resisting the urge to groan, Albus opened one eye long enough to see Ozzy's smiling face.

"Back with your friends?" he said thickly, through the blood, and a savage kick landed in his groin. He remembered the wand in his hands-

"Petrificus Totalus-"

A dark shape toppled over, but the voice which had cried the curses cackled. "Put some balls into it, Potter-"

Another blow impacted on his nose; he felt it break-

"_Sectumsempra!"_

Eric suddenly gave a scream of agony, and concern for not appearing too knowledgeable flew out of Albus's mind - these boys, whoever they were, were quite willing, and quite capable of killing-

-The old Auror training came in useful. He dropped below another punch and flipped backwards, twisting so that his wand's point inscribed a circle-

"_Incendia Undo!"_

Flame erupted in a volcanic wave that swept everything backwards. Ozzy screeched in terror, and someone else swore.

"Where'd you learn that, Potter?" called the voice, undaunted. "Aren't we a clever boy-?"

He could see them now, cowed against the hovering flames. Six Slytherins - all Sixth-Years at least - faces twisted in malice and hatred. One boy was standing mere inches from the flames, twirling his wand between his fingers and looking only mildly ruffled. Albus risked a glance to his right - Eric was on the floor, blood soaking into the floorboards and eyes glazed. Worried, he took a step towards him, but the calm boy's voice halted him.

"We're not messing around, Potter. Snape'll have your head within a few hours. _Avada Kedavra!"_

Albus leapt sideways, and once again the curse smashed into a bookcase. Burning pages flew through the air-

"_Ira Tempestas!"_

The air sizzled. The Slytherins braced themselves, but the crackling feeling merely remained. Their leader laughed.

"Best not be too ambitious, eh? Now-"

The lightning screamed its way across the room, missing the boy's head by millimetres, blackening his hair. The other Slytherins screamed and tried to bound aside, but the electrical storm danced all around the library, deadly bolts hissing past into the Restricted Section, engulfing the desks and lighting the room with flame. Albus narrowed his eyes and watched; he had no intention of killing, and had aimed the spell too precisely for mistakes to be made, but there was nothing to prevent a frightened enemy from jumping into death.

The leader of the Slytherins stood, apparently paralysed with fear and fury. Then-

"_AVADA KEDAVRA!"_

-Too fast, too unexpected-

-A desk flew across the room of its own accord, taking the curse and shattering-

-Splinters of wood-

He did not understand at first, but then another shape appeared through the smoke, the completely unexpected shape of Martha Read-

"STUPEFY! STUPEFY!"

The Slytherins were as unprepared as he was; both Ozzy and another boy were unconscious before they had hit the floor, before they had even turned around-

"No you don't, you horrible old bat!" snarled the leader, turning his wand on the professor, who looked strangely relaxed about the situation-

"STUPEFY!"

The spell missed, and the boy danced away, eyes mad and rolling. "I'll not be stopped, you old whore! You have no authority over me, over the Neo-Dark-"

Martha Read did nothing but raise her eyebrows, completely defying Albus's previous estimate of her personality. Standing there, wand tracking the movement of the Sixth-Year, she looked cold and strong, oddly intimidating. The fact that the library was all but an inferno did not appear to perturb her.

"Mr Blaine, I presume? I'm to believe that you are now synonymous with the Neo-Dark and 'beyond my authority?' You are already in _far_ more trouble than you can imagine, Mr Blaine; I advise you to put that wand down now."

The boy who was apparently Jonathan Blaine spat, spat a large gobbet of saliva which landed at the professor's feet. "What? Expulsion? It'd be an effin' release-"

"Azkaban," she corrected icily. "For attempted murder."

Blaine danced with fury. "I'd escape. I'd get out. I'd come back and raze this place to the ground-"

"I suppose you got these inflated ideas from reading that book. The Headmistress-"

"-That old hag can do _nothing." _Blaine jabbed his finger at Brian. "There are so _many _of us! You couldn't imagine - hundreds and hundreds, and we'd all kill the brat for _him-"_

Martha's face twitched. "You've been in contact with-"

"Of course I have! Why else would I _bother?" _He gave her a sharp, searching look. Albus eyed her warily; something was being hidden here-

"Snape-"

Blaine caught Brian's wince and grinned. "Have _you _met him?" he asked teasingly.

Martha flinched. "Yes," she whispered.

Albus froze, and stared between the professor and the boy and back again, mind working furiously. So Snape _was _Ozzy's 'man in the woods,' and he probably _was _enacting some sort of continuing revenge-

"I thought I knew him very well," she continued, "but then he did things which I could never forgive - things which no one should ever forgive. Things which it is incredibly foolish of you to try and emulate." Her voice became harsh. "I rather think Azkaban will be the destination for your friends as well. Now, _hand over the wand."_

"No-"

"_Stupefy!"_

Blaine dropped limply to the ground. Remembering Eric, Albus rushed over to his friend's body, coughing as ash dirtied his mouth. He gasped as he reached him; a large gash, deep and vivid with blood, had been opened in his chest, and the young Weasley's robes were stained scarlet. Hands slippery with sweat, Albus tried to perform a diagnostic spell, but the professor batted him away, and began to croon an incantation.

He barely saw the wounds as they knit together, barely felt it as his nose was mended; only one thought now occupied his mind. He stared at the professor's bent head.

"You knew Snape?"

Martha didn't look up. "I don't believe that to be any of your business, Mr Potter."

Albus remained silent, but angled his head so as to see her eyes. He reached out mentally, grazing the surface of something familiar-

Her head snapped upwards, and he retracted. She looked both shaken and furious, apparently unable to speak for several moments.

"Mr Potter," she said stiffly, finally. "It is not courteous to delve uninvited into the minds of others."

"My apologies, Professor."

"Only apologise when you are sincere," she snapped; he realised he had sounded as smooth and slick as he had in Minerva's office.

Nothing more was said, and Eric's groans began to fill the ruined library. Martha levitated the bodies of the Slytherins outside, piling them unceremoniously the corridor, and directed Eric to Madam Pomfrey. A glance from her held Albus back, and in a few moments, they were walking up the Headmistress's office, the Slytherins floating ominously along behind them.

* * *

Early the next morning, the Chief Auror declined a cup of tea, and sat waiting for Brian's appearance in the Headmistress's office. The exhaustion of the last few hours was beginning to wear off, and the fury was beginning to set in.

To be summoned at dawn to Hogwarts, told of an attack on his son, and then to spend several tedious hours conducting initial interviews with the Slytherins involved was certainly more than enough to anger him, especially as Blaine had been so resolutely mum on anything of importance, and had insisted on showing off his Dark Mark tattoos unasked for. Yet no, that was not all. He had arrived to discover not only his son keeping secrets from him, but also the Headmistress.

His hands closed over the letters once again, and his fingers traced the cut outs gingerly.

_…You must appeal to your father. _

Only, Brian _hadn't_ appealed to his father. He had not told Harry about it at all, had decided that the matter of his safety was completely unimportant, had knowingly kept information from the Chief Auror, who happened to write letters to him every weekend! No, it had been left to Minerva McGonagall to lay it all before him - lay it all before him after not one, but _two _incidents had happened.

Why hadn't Ozzy Herrford been expelled and reported to the Aurors?

Oh, it was because of a technicality, because it wasn't actually term-time, that first time, so expulsion had been impossible, and she had been so distracted by the danger the school was in, hadn't she, so very distracted-

Harry crushed the paper in his fist and shot a glare at Minerva, who was standing at the window, back towards him. There was something about the rigid way she was standing that suggested that she was more than aware of his anger, and there had been something in her tone of voice as she was telling him that had implied that she knew full well that she had no excuse, and had been struggling to find one. Snape! Snape after his son, and he had not known! Snape, playing the Slytherin House like a game, and nobody had bothered to inform him.

The knock on door came. Minerva said her assent, and the door opened.

The sight of Brian, sporting a black eye and a swollen, bent nose, had the Chief Auror torn between greater heights of rage and paternal empathy. The boy was pale, drawn, and the blue eyes behind their spectacles hardly dared meet his gaze.

"You decided not to tell me," Harry heard himself say softly. "May I ask, why?"

Brian shrugged his shoulders. "I didn't want to worry you."

"And so you succeeded in worrying me far more, by allowing yourself to be subject to two completely preventable attacks."

"I'm sorry."

"That's just not good enough."

Harry stood, and began to pace the room. One part of him wanted to draw the boy into his arms and sooth away the hurt, but that wouldn't do. Nor could he focus on the pride that swelled within him when he remembered Martha's brief words on how well his son had defended himself, how capable he was, so well versed in defence…

Nevertheless, he found himself laying one hand on the boy's shoulder. "I'm just scared for you. I don't want you to get hurt."

Brian brushed his flaming hair out of his eyes, and regarded him with a blank face which somehow expressed far more emotion by being blank than by any other means. Harry was suddenly struck by how thin and slight Brian was, how small in height, how vulnerable in every appearance… His arms closed around him automatically.

His son returned the hug tightly, almost desperately. Harry eyed his crooked nose.

"What happened there?"

"Got hit."

"Couldn't Madam Pomfrey straighten it?"

"No, she said she couldn't. What's happening to the Slytherins?"

Harry drew back, sighing. "Well, the ones that attacked you… that will be decided back at HQ. There will probably be a trial, and you'll be required to give evidence. I'm hoping you'll be a lot less reticent with a court than you have been with me. As for the rest of House - I understand Professors McGonagall and Slughorn will be having a talk with them at some point today."

Brian fixed him with a shrewd look. "Was Blaine _really _in contact with-"

Harry interrupted; the idea of having Snape's name spoken in Dumbledore's old office was somehow obscene. "We're not sure. He wouldn't give me any real information - it will be left to us to draw it out of him back at Ministry."

The boy was silent, and his expression was so solemn that Harry was suddenly inclined to lighten the moment.

"Looking forward to the ball?"

Out of the corner of his eye, he glimpsed Minerva turn round.

"The ball?" repeated Brian confusedly. "How do you know about that?"

"I've been invited, that's why! Your mother was too, but she probably won't be able to come because of David."

His son's expression softened at the mention of his brother. "I have no dress robes-"

"You do now, I picked some up for you yesterday." Harry reached for the package underneath his chair. "Don't panic - purple and gold, just as you like it. If they don't fit-"

"Ball?" Minerva sounded puzzled. "What ball?"

The Chief Auror stared at her. "The ball… the ball on Saturday."

"I know nothing about it."

Brian's small reddish eyebrows came together in a frown. Harry rolled his eyes, and patted him on the shoulder. "Have a good time, okay? I'll see you on Saturday."

With that, he strode from the room, leaving two very baffled people behind him.

* * *

The full truth of it all only seeped through in the days that followed. Minerva was half-inclined to disbelieve it when she heard about it; it seemed so out of character, and so hastily arranged that she wouldn't have been surprised if it had turned out to be some sort of prank originating from the Weasley twins. As time passed, however, the more indisputable it became; the older years rushed around frantically, arranging dates, with several hormonal outbursts occurring in the corridors, and Gladrags Wizardwear in Hogmeade was rapidly swamped by pupils desperate to get hold of dress robes. No, the truth was out:

Aberforth had arranged a ball.

Aberforth had arranged a ball, behind her back and yet in her name, inviting virtually everybody, letting everybody else in on the secret before her, only thinking to inform her personally with a note four days before:

_Minerva,_

_Have awwanged a ball in oner of you on Saterday from six o'clock onwords. Hop you don't mind. _

_Love,_

_Aberforth_

Assuming that 'oner' was supposed to be 'honour,' it did seem as though he had taken her comments about showing one's feelings publicly to heart. She hoped nothing too demonstrative would happen at the ball; exactly what Aberforth would feel to be public enough was unknown - perhaps it would simply consist of dancing with her, or perhaps he would kiss her in public, or perhaps-

She refused to think about it. There were other things to concentrate on - for example, the confrontation with Slytherin, which had been less of a confrontation than a lecture accompanied by a collective 'grassing' on Brian's attackers, who appeared to have done both everything and nothing. Of course, Slughorn had been overly melodramatic, insisting on ripping up the poster of Voldemort in front of them, and then retelling the story of the war with himself as the centre actor.

However, the meeting had not been entirely without achievement. Minerva was satisfied that most of Slytherin House had regarded Blaine and his companions as loners and weirdoes, and Slughorn had succeeded in extracting the source of the poster and various pseudo-Dark books (which had been more about sprinkling rat's blood around than real mischief) from them, which turned out to be a little shop in Hogmeade. Slughorn had investigated the shop, which claimed to sell "alternative clothing and resources for the alternative mind," and had come back shaking his head in distress - but she herself had visited it, and found it to be everything which Molly Weasley would have disapproved of, but mainly harmless, save for a few semi-questionable items where the concept of 'teen rebellion' had been taken perhaps a little too far.

Exactly how Blaine had gotten hold of The Dark Manifesto, and a few other of the more serious books, was still unknown. The possibility of Snape directly sending them to him was one which did not go unvoiced.

Then there was the recent row between Martha and Sybil, with the latter claiming that the former now thought herself distinctly above her, and the former continuing to lock herself away with an illness which Poppy doubted the existence of. And then there was the matter of Rolanda's Flying lessons, whether they should be brought forward or not. And of course there was the letter from the Ministry about what had happened, plus updates from Harry…

These important issues were ones which Minerva continued to focus on, even when the day of the ball was finally reached, even when she was standing in front of a mirror, experimenting with different sets of robes. The ball had crept up on her so fast, that she still felt barely prepared. In some ways, maybe she had occupied her thoughts too much, but then…

Thinking of anything else only brought worry. If she thought of Aberforth, then she could only wonder what he was going to do, ponder unhappily on the subject of Rolanda's words, or find herself attempting to burgeon a love that shouldn't have needed burgeoning. She loved him, oh how she loved him… How would she feel if he was not there? Despairing, and miserable beyond description…

The delving grew more desperate. Indeed, why was she delving? She applied her make-up so distractedly that twice she had to redo it.

_Albus…_

Her fingers slipped on the clasp of her robes. She had chosen red and gold, in the old Gryffindor tradition… Perhaps that wasn't a good idea? Would it be appropriate for the Headmistress to wear the colours of one House? No matter, it was too late now anyway, only ten to six.

…_My darling…_

The clasp pricked her. She paused, halting both the rush of preparation and of thought in order to watch the blood pool on the end of her finger. Why on earth was she so nervous? This was a ball, nothing but a ball. She sucked her finger, and the metallic tang of blood flooded her mouth.

Voices sounded outside the tapestry door. Rolanda and Poppy were whispering to each other…

"Come in," she said, and her friends burst through.

Rolanda was in yellow dress robes with a gathered bodice; the result was so blinding that at first Poppy's subtler green was virtually invisible next to her. Rolanda was full of irrepressible excitement, talking so fast that Minerva only caught a few random phrases about how well the Great Hall had been decorated for the occasion, and about whether or not the robes were too bright for her. Poppy, however, appeared close to tears.

"Poppy!"

The Healer wiped her eyes, smiling weakly. "S-Sorry, I'm just being silly. You must be so nervous!"

"It's just a ball," said Minerva steadily, privately even more alarmed. "We shall spend most of the evening thoroughly bored."

Poppy sniffed, and suddenly enveloped her in a hug. "Alastor will be waiting for me," she whispered.

"'_Alastor will be waiting for me,'" _imitated Rolanda, smirking. "Honestly, I can't believe how you two have dates and I don't! I, Matchmaker of the Universe."

Minerva effected a laugh. "Name one couple you matched together, Rolanda."

"Well, in my head…"

"It's time for us to go down now," Poppy said, drawing back, eyes still incomprehensibly moist.

* * *

The foyer was crowded to the point when breathing became difficult; nobody had been allowed into the Great Hall yet, and students and faculty alike were forced against the wall by the weight of people. A natural space cleared its way around the Chief Auror, who was talking casually with Ron and Hermione, all resplendent in vivid dress robes. Another space appeared around Mad-Eye Moody, who stood at the bottom of the stairs, glaring at anyone who dared stare at the sight of the scarred ex-Auror in midnight blue robes and a black top hat. Lupin and Tonks could be seen making their way up to the main doors from the grounds, and Abigail was barrelling her way through the crowd, dragging a reluctant Benjamin Stubbs along behind her.

There was a sensation when the photographers and reporters arrived, trying to reach the Chief Auror, who promptly turned his back on them and marched away. Another sensation was created when the inexorable Madam Pomfrey was seen sinking into Moody's embrace, and yet another when the formidable Professor McGonagall was spotted proceeding down the stairs, arm in arm with Madam Hooch.

Albus stood on tip-toes, trying to see her before she sank into the throng. His breath came more quickly as he saw her, her hair loose except for tendrils of gold woven into her locks, and her magnificent robes bringing out the colour in her cheeks. Heart beating painfully, he watched her until she could no longer be seen, and until Eric began to drag him towards the opening doors of the Great Hall.

The enchanted sky was clear, sparkling with stars. The House benches were nowhere to be seen, instead there were buffet tables lit with fairy-lanterns, and magical streamers extending from the ceiling to the floor. A fountain, exquisite with classical figures and montages, was spewing what looked to be punch out into a large basin. A stage stood at the other end of the hall, and piano-music was originating seemingly from the air itself.

"Wow," whispered Eric, but Albus barely heard him. He fingered the medallion which had arrived by owl that morning, the medallion showing a phoenix rampant which the Order had once given him to mark him as their leader. Minerva had found it, had wrapped it with her own two delicate hands, had written him a note about it…

"Hey, who's that with the Headmistress?"

He looked up. Aberforth was standing next to Minerva, saying something to her with eyes that danced and glowed as much as the sky above. Albus couldn't recall ever seeing him so well-groomed; the splendour of the other guests paled beside him. The grizzled hair had been tamed, and he was wearing black dress robes and a cravat, looking more as though he was attending a wedding rather than a ball. Something clenched inside Albus's chest; he looked away.

"D'you reckon that stuff in the fountain is alcoholic?" Eric asked.

He suddenly hoped that it was. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Minerva and Aberforth still talking, Minerva asking him something, him responding with a laugh and an uncharacteristic wave of the hand-

The piano music had stopped, and there was an abrupt collective scream from the students; a band had arrived on stage, leather-clad and sneering fashionably. The crowd moved forward-

"Ooh," said Eric, tugging Brian's arm. "It's Eclipse!"

Albus didn't know who Eclipse were, and didn't much care. There was a roar of an instrument, someone cheered, and something fast and ferocious which Eric screamed was industrial thrash began. Catching Harry's distant eye, Albus forced Brian to dance as wildly as possible, half hoping that the music would drown everything else out. The people around him became a blur as the song worked them into a frenzy. Time blurred as the song changed into another, and another. He could hear Eric shrieking out some of the lyrics, something about forbidden fruit and wishes unfulfilled…

He did not look at Minerva and his brother until the band were finished, and when he did, to his relief they were merely selecting items from the buffet, chatting with the other adults. Ear-drums still thrumming to the sound of the music, he moved forwards and grabbed a sausage and a paper plate. Eric babbled at him ineffectually, and gasped when Albus snatched a glass of punch and drank it in one gulp.

The break lasted almost too long; there was nothing to distract him from the way Aberforth plucked at Minerva's shoulders every now and then, or curled a finger in her hair. She kept on looking up and away from him, eyes searching the crowd, but by no means seemed as though she was objecting to his attentions. He sighed with relief when music started again - calm, ballroom music, emanating this time from a set of musicians who were demure enough to raise their eyebrows at what Eclipse had left on-stage.

No, this was no relief. Feeling sick, he gulped down some more punch as Aberforth took Minerva's hand and led her onto the dance-floor, twirling her around him like a flower. For a few, agonising moments, they were the only couple dancing, but then the faculty and adults moved in, followed by the older students. The rest of the world faded to insignificance compared to the first couple, but at least now his view was occasionally blocked.

Most of the First-Years were without dates, and retreated into chattering huddles. Eric seemed determined to drink more punch than Brian, and was soon giggling at the way Brian's funny medallion glinted in the light. Albus ignored him, and tried to keep his face impassive as he watched Minerva whisper something in Aberforth's ear. Merlin, this was torture.

To distract himself, he tried to watch Alastor and Poppy dancing instead, Poppy weaving expertly out of the way of Alastor's leg, and Harry dancing reluctantly with a blonde witch who kept on insisting that they paused for photographs. Abigail Lupin and Benjamin Stubbs were twirling beside Tonks and Remus in a bizarre echo of the older generation. The effort of watching them was exhausting. -

"Enough!"

Aberforth's voice turned his head. His brother had stopped dancing, and was clutching Minerva's beautiful hands.

"Enough, it is time."

The wizard let go of one hand to withdraw his wand from his pocket. Minerva's expression was one of bewilderment as he raised it into the air-

BANG!

A burst of golden stars erupted over the heads of the crowd. The musicians were silenced, chatter ceased. All eyes turned towards Aberforth and Minerva, the latter flushing. Albus felt something electric shoot down his spine, just as his brother turned back to address the Headmistress as though unaware of the attention he had attracted-

"You told me a man should be a public about his feelings," he said softly, but every word was heard. "Aye, I fully intend to be. Minerva, Minerva-"

His eyes! How could she not be overwhelmed by them?

"-When a man loves a woman, he shouldn't be ashamed. I am not ashamed - how could I be," he added thickly, "how could I be when you are that woman? My love, my treasure-"

Albus saw him drop to one knee as if from a distance, and his own shanks trembled. Minerva's mouth was opening, her eyes were stunned. A camera flashed as the box was proffered, as the ring was revealed. Aberforth's soul was on show. The crowd was now an audience, a gasping, excited audience-

-Rolanda was smiling, Poppy was crying - yes, they had known all along-

-His vision swam, everything blurred except for Minerva's shocked face; this was it, this was the doom he had foreseen-

"Will you marry me?"

He took a step backwards, he could not see this, he could not bear this-

-Those emerald eyes. Her gaze locked with his, she was staring straight at him, face white and desperate… That invisible thread connected them, pausing the scene, excluding all else. Boy and woman, but a prelude to the marriage between man and woman. The world waited, the entire universe waited, when the answer was inevitable, when hands were already readying for applause-

_"I… I can't."_

**A/N: Hmm. Well... I hope it was better...**_  
_


	20. Agonies And Endearments

**A/N: Yes, you adorable scallywags, here's another chapter! My mental Minerva refused to let me stop. Jester and Puppetcat, I'm afraid the online translators did you no justice at all. Jester, I can't imagine that you really meant to talk about tapeworms! Thank you, all reviewers, you are all so splendid!**

He couldn't breath. No one breathed. Aberforth's joyful expression did not change, as though the answer had not yet seeped through. No, it was impossible, he had imagined it, Minerva and Aberforth were in love-

"I'm s-sorry." Minerva was gulping, eyes overflowing. "I'm sorry, Aberforth, I c-can't."

Aberforth's head snapped backwards, as though he had been slapped. He was off his knees and staggering, eyes round. His expression showed him to be in the depths of hell.

_"Why?"_

He never said it, but his face asked it. Minerva was weeping now, weeping when Poppy had stopped, and Poppy and Rolanda were simply staring, beyond shock, beyond expression of shock-

_"I'm in love with someone else."_

Flooded eyes turned towards him. Albus felt completely numb as his brother's face suddenly contorted in grief.

The ring was discarded, flung away into the silent crowd. Blue eyes blazed with tears and rage.

_"You're in love with someone _dead!"

The pain exploded.

"_NOBODY COULD MEASURE UP, NOBODY COULD EVER BLOODY MEASURE UP-"_

Gulping now, as though the voice's owner was at a loss as to how convey anything more. Albus found himself mesmerised by the way Aberforth's craggy face seemed unable to close back up, unable to conceal the emotions it had been so hard to reveal. No, the pain before them all was raw, much too raw to hide, and Albus could see how it was-

_-He had been lonely for so long. He was without companions, and without family, for all he had was a brother he hated. The Hog's Head was all there was, all that there was which he could submerge himself into. Loneliness was his destiny. Then he had met her, and he had dared to believe, and he had opened up a door that no one had ever had the key to before, opened it up when before he closed it for his own protection. He had let her see the self behind the shell, and had invited her in. And she had stepped in, and had seen him, and had rejected him-_

His brother…His Erik had torn off the mask before the entire world, because he had believed that that was what Minerva had wanted…

Albus moved forward, eyes heavy with the weight of suppressed water. He could barely comprehend what had happened, could only understand that his brother - the wire-haired toddler, the sullen little boy, the withdrawn old man - had been damaged, perhaps irreparably. His mouth moved, but no sound came out-

-In the dreadful silence which follows every public abomination, the auburn-haired boy reached out a faltering hand into the empty space-

-And then the old man wheeled about, and tore from the Great Hall, shoving the stunned observers aside. His black cloak twisted and contorted in the wind of his passing, a visual scream which would find no other expression, and he was gone, fleeing from a public Hell back into a private one.

* * *

Minerva's legs crumpled beneath her. As she fell, all she could see through her tears was the flying black cloak passing through the doors, and a boy with half-moon spectacles, countenance appalled. Voices sounded in her ears; Rolanda and Poppy were beside her, saying things which did not matter, clutching her, pulling her up when fainting was most welcome…

… Faces passed before her eyes. Some were the random, impersonal faces of students, too aghast to give any kind of coherent response, others were the faces of those she knew - all dismayed, all astonished. There was Alastor, thunderous with rage, both eyes fixed in the same direction for once, piercing her with accusations… There was Harry, reduced to a terrified student again, completely without understanding, and Filius, miniature face shining with tears. Rolanda, poor Rolanda, grin now one of horror, and dearest Poppy, bawling beyond control. Even Sybil, contemptuous Sybil, was looking shocked…

Too miserable to make herself care for her audience, Minerva knuckled her fists into her eyes, making no attempt to stem the flow. She deserved this, she deserved unhappiness - how could she have led poor, besotted Aberforth on when she had known that it would come to this, and that the answer had already been predetermined? Loathing for herself bubbled in her throat; she was sick at herself-

-Albus - what had he thought? What could he feel other than hatred for the woman who had done his brother such injury?

Her sobs increased; her thoughts showed how terrible she was - that she was thinking of Albus when Aberforth… Was that embrace Poppy's, or Rolanda's? No, she deserved nothing, she must struggle-

"M-Minerva, _please," _came Poppy's sodden voice, and she ceased.

"Oh Merlin, oh Merlin," Rolanda was repeating into her ear-

Moody's voice rose above them, harsh:

"_-She led him on, for Merlin's sake; by thunder he would have done whatever she wanted! To hear him talk-"_

Poppy was making some sounds of protest, but there were no words, there was no excuse-

"_I thought I l-loved him, I thought I did," _she was saying, to whoever was listening.

-Hands were bundling her away from the commotion. Opening her eyes to the fractured light her tears had reduced the ball to, Minerva could see blurs that were people hurrying off; the ball was dissolving, the guests draining away… Was that auburn smudge Albus?

"_You're in love with someone _dead!"

Had he realised?

She was out of the Great Hall now, and being led up the stairs. Poppy and Rolanda were speaking fitfully, evidently at a loss as to what to say. She couldn't blame them; when the time came for speaking, she would not know what words to use either… Stairs passed away in a blind haze, they were heading to her office…

She halted suddenly, in a corridor, and leant against the wall, trying to quell the sobbing enough for speech. Poppy mumbled something, and drew an arm around her.

"Minerva-"

"Y-You knew, didn't you?" The Headmistress wished she had her stick with her; she'd dared leave it behind for the ball, and now her legs were failing her… "You knew he was g-going to propose."

As she blinked away tears, she could see Poppy and Rolanda exchanging a horrified glance. The Healer dissolved into sobs all over again.

"Y-Yes, yes we did-"

"I m-mean, why else would he arrange a ball?" Roland wiped her eyes. "Or w-we thought he'd already proposed, and that you were g-going to announce it… We thought-"

"_As did I," _Minerva choked out, swaying slightly. "I thought…"

What precisely she thought, she could no longer articulate; the friends moved on, supporting each other into the office, and through the tapestry into her private chambers which they had left so enthusiastically only hours before. Once they were inside, Minerva collapsed into a chair. She suddenly wished Poppy and Rolanda weren't there; she wanted to go to bed and cry herself into slumberous release. Her grief was too great to conceal, but too great to fully show - she was no longer Minerva McGonagall, no longer even just Minerva or a person at all; she had become an essence, a memory incarcerated into a body, with one painful moment filling her up to the pores and drowning all else-

No, she no longer wanted to be Minerva McGonagall.

Fur rippled over her body; Rolanda gave a cry and drew the transforming Minerva into her arms. The tabby cat nuzzled its head into her chest, and gave a piteous mew. The flying instructor stroked the patterned fur helplessly.

"Minerva, I honestly believed you loved him," she whispered. "All the dinners, all the outings! Those two weeks in Paris! I thought…"

Poppy collapsed into the chair Minerva had just vacated, head in her hands. "Why did you refuse him?"

The Headmistress closed her feline eyes. Perhaps that was part of the reason why she had become her Animagus form: to escape answering the important questions. Cats could not cry, she realised distantly. Cats could only wag their tails and tremble, and give no expression to whatever trauma they had suffered - no, _caused themselves. _

"Was what Aberforth said true?"

She opened her eyes, and tried to communicate it all with a stare.

"Oh Minerva… I thought you'd got over him!"

She let a growl rumble in her throat. Rolanda stroked her, trying to sooth her-

"You mean that that's not possible?"

A mew in reply.

Poppy suddenly shot to her feet, two pink blotches beginning to form on her cheeks. Human eyes glared at feline ones.

"He's been dead for _twenty years! _You _seemed _to get over him! Merlin, I half agree with Alastor; you really led him on-"

"_Poppy!" _

The flying instructor scrabbled, but the cat had already flown out of her arms, and was tearing out of the room. Poppy lurched forward, but the tabby was already through the tapestry.

"_Minerva, I'm sorry, I didn't-"_

But Minerva no longer existed. The human surrendered to the cat, and nobody had ever given the tabby a name.

* * *

Eric Weasley drifted from the ball in a daze. The alcohol had worn off; now it was the event that had stupefied him, and made him feel so shocked. Everywhere he looked, stunned students were leaving the Great Hall in droves, hardly daring to say anything, but whispers were rising the ceiling, scandalised, frightened whispers…

Eric was aware that old images and ideas had been shattered; the Headmistress was no longer a remote, stern figure, but a tearful, half-hysterical woman, and the expression of the man who had fled the Great Hall so dramatically had had a strength of sorrow which seemed out of place for Hogwarts - too serious, too real. It occurred to him that perhaps the proposal had been the whole point of the ball, and that the appearance of Eclipse had been cursory, just to please him and his friends…

A pang of worry shot through his stomach. His friends… Brian. He'd been strange the whole ball, barely saying a word or acknowledging what anyone was saying to him, and then when… when what had happened had happened, he had seemed paralysed, white and staring even as Professor McGonagall was being half-carried out of the ball. Then before Eric had been able to say a word to him, he'd dashed off to Merlin-knows-where.

Eric quickened his pace. Brian had always been funny, he thought distractedly. He had always been concerned for him; he hadn't seemed quite real - and so withdrawn, with that depressive air about him. There was no telling what effect something like this might have on him-

"Eric!"

Mark Scott and Cal Smith were trotting up to him. Mark looked flushed and oddly excited, whilst Cal appeared just about as shocked as Eric felt.

"I'm going to find Brian - he rushed off-"

"Oh blow Brian," said Mark irritably. "Merlin, can you believe what just happened? Who'd have thought that the old hag had a boyfriend-"

Anger suddenly flooded him. He didn't like how excited Mark looked, as though what had happened had been a Quidditch match rather than something sad and serious.

"Don't talk about it like that! It was horrible. I'm glad it's over."

Mark raised his eyebrows. "Calm down," he said mildly. "And why all the worry about Brian?"

Eric looked at him helplessly. He didn't have the words to express what he thought about Brian - he wasn't as clever as him; Brian would probably have been able to convey it. There was also no way he could tell Mark such thoughts - how sensitive Brian was… how lonely and sad, as if something terrible had happened to him long ago… something so terrible that they all had to pretend that it hadn't ever occurred, and cover it up with jokes and laughter… And the way Brian was sometimes so solemn, like a miniature adult rather than another boy…

"He's probably back at the Common Room anyway. Cal, come on. Everyone will be talking about it back upstairs."

The boys fought their way through the throng, struggling to reach the main stairs. Eric thought he glimpsed Brian on the moving flights some floors above, but there was no telling from such a distance. The first few floors were crowded as students rushed to their Common Rooms, but the way grew easier as they went on; Gryffindor Common Room was on the seventh floor, and pupils from other Houses soon trickled away. They reached the Fat Lady just as Eric glimpsed it conceal Brian from view.

As Mark had said, the Common Room was packed with students still in their dress robes, noisily discussing what had just happened. Mark looked as though he wanted to sit down and join in, but Eric pulled him towards the boy's dormitories after Brian, furiously wanting him to be concerned…

Brian was standing stock-still in the middle of their dormitory, head bowed, looking even iller than he had down in the Great Hall. He was muttering to himself, and did not appear to register their arrival next to him.

"Erm, hello?" Mark clicked his fingers, but Brian did not respond.

"_Oh Merlin, no, she couldn't have meant that…"_

Eric bent down slightly, so that he could see blue eyes behind their spectacles and the curtain of auburn hair. They were wild and crazed, seemingly staring at something that nobody else could see.

"Brian?" he said, cautiously.

The other boy jumped, and looked up at him distantly, apparently still not really seeing him.

"Are you all right?"

"Yes… yes I'm fine…" Brian's face contradicted his words.

"You don't look very well. Do you want me to take you to Madam Pomfrey?"

"No, no… that will not be… will not be required…" Brian closed his eyes, and swayed. Sweat shone on his forehead; Eric got the distinct impression of a mind racing beyond all endurance.

Mark was staring in grotesque fascination. "Blimey…he's gone cuckoo."

"No, perhaps he really _is_ ill," suggested Cal, stepping back slightly, as though afraid that it was contagious.

"Brian?" Eric tried again.

His friend was ignoring him once more; instead of responding, he ran his fingers through his long hair, and then removed his glasses before putting them back on again, all the while mumbling something beyond the reach of hearing. The other boys exchanged glances.

"Did he drink any of that punch?" Mark offered, suddenly. "I know some of the Hufflepuffs drank too much…"

"Yes," agreed Eric slowly. "Yes, he did…"

"Then perhaps he's drunk."

Brian seemed to remember them.

"I wish I was," he breathed, keeling over onto the nearest bed. "Merlin, I wish I was… _he cannot have meant me…"_

_"Who _cannot have meant you?" Eric asked, at a loss, but Brian turned over, mumbling into the pillow, fingers twisting the fabric, and his whole body trembling with apparent agitation.

_"The photos… I am dead, I am dead…"_

Eric bit his lip with worry. Perhaps Brian was on the verge of succumbing to some debilitating wizarding disease…

"Oh, leave him be," sniffed Mark, glaring at the huddled body scornfully. "Mr High-And-Mighty Potter's just punch-drunk. Of _course _he's not going to make any sense."

With that, both Mark and Cal scurried away back down to the Common Room, the occupants of which being already engaged in the task of trivialising events, turning reality into fiction, and fiction into myth, and myth into scandalous fantasy. Eric, however, remained some time in the dormitory, watching his friend shudder and shake, whilst murmuring both agony and endearments into a pillow.

* * *

A day passed.

Sunday's clear skies were not enough to erase the events of the previous evening. Her foolishness, and the defiance she had shown to the resolute reality that would not bend to her will, were not to be undone by the mere movement of time. Aberforth's agonised face was the first image that came to her waking mind, and it remained in her mind still, as the day drew to a close. What sleep she had enjoyed had brought only a temporal release.

Nature laughed at her. This was not the first time in her life that she had noticed a disparity between events and the weather, but she couldn't remember it being quite so cruelly obvious before. The sun made the lake sparkle serenely, with its waters undisturbed even by the Giant Squid, and the only clouds which dared scud by were white and pure, as innocent as something a child would make using cotton wool. It was almost as if she was being shown a picture of the happiness which she had rejected.

She had woken up to find herself wet, and nestled under a bush, feline form still intact. Poppy's words still seared her, and prevented her from seeking out any company. Rolanda had been up to her office, but she had made so clear that she wanted to be alone that her friend had left after only fifteen minutes. Filius had come by, squeaking his presence from behind the door, but she had pretended absence, and he had gone away dissatisfied. She didn't attend breakfast, lunch or dinner, and wouldn't have eaten at all if some very subdued House-Elves hadn't brought some food to her.

She ate mechanically, without appetite. She wondered what Aberforth was doing, whether he was running the pub as usual, what he would say if they were to suddenly encounter one another. Roses drooped and died all around her. She wanted to throw them away, but that would involve touching them, and that would be unbearable. The image of her callously flinging the flowers in the fire was one which displeased her, and so did not occur.

For once, work could not keep her occupied. Another Minerva, in another reality, would have been decidedly ashamed as to how she spent her time: doing nothing, saying nothing, thinking nothing. Books were uninteresting, Transfiguration a bore. Fawkes was presumably with Albus; his uplifting song was notable only by the lack of it. In some ways, this was a good thing; the phoenix could only have reminded her of the brothers.

At last, as the sun set and the need for candles grew, she moved herself to do something, to pick up a quill, and write. She addressed the letter to Albus, and wrote an apology. The true apology was owed to Aberforth, but she doubted he would read the letter once he saw who it was from, and so she wrote it to his brother instead. She explained all she had felt - her affection for both siblings, her inability to give Aberforth his proper place in her heart, her continuing love for Albus… She would not send it, she would simply write it.

She continued writing even when the office was completely dark, continued on for five feet of parchment. Afterwards, she rolled it up and sealed it, and placed it in a drawer, never to be touched again. Then, on a new piece of parchment-

_Albus,_

_I know what you must think of me, and I do not expect you to forgive me for how I treated Aberforth. I will not intrude on your company and patience further, but I wish you to know that I did not intentionally deceive your brother. I had genuine love for him, and had no wish to make him unhappy. _

_Minerva _

There was nothing else she could write. What could she express, other than ineffectual regret? Confessions would now have to be penned to Eleanor Reeves.

Wearily, she turned her eyes to clock. No, it was too late to toil up to the Owlery. The letter would be sent the following morning. Feeling strangely purged, she retired to bed.

* * *

The next few days were an incomprehensible mixture of pleasure and pain to Albus. Once his thought and emotions were under his control, the gossip of the students became both more apparent and more trying. Words passed from House to House and down the corridors like darts, infused with more poison than benevolence. Several times, he had had to bite back his own words in order to preserve his secret - a secret already at risk from the turmoil he had been in immediately after it all.

Nothing had been heard of Aberforth, and he himself had not the knowledge to even guess what state his brother was in. Aberforth had never before gone so far down the path of openness as to be rejected; his reaction could not be gauged. There was little way of finding out, as he very much doubted that the letters of a man who was supposed to be dead would be appreciated…

…_A man who was supposed to be dead…_

Minerva had not been seen since Saturday; to all appearances she was holed up in her office, not even emerging for food. His soul trembled with pity for the pair of them, pity for the goddess, and pity for the mortal she had refused… He recalled her note with unhappiness; he had sent a reply back immediately, effusive in its denial of him not wanting her to 'intrude on his company,' and as comforting and understanding as words could be shaped into. There had not yet been a response.

An emotion gnawed at him, not one that was appropriate - indeed, he was guilty for experiencing guilt… Conclusions should not be leapt to…

Yet…

Aberforth's accusation resounded in his head. If the suggestion was true, that Minerva was in love with someone dead…

Logically, the pieces all came together. How beautifully it all fit, with her behaviour and her words all seeming to imply… Albus dared not consider it, how dare he consider it when his brother..? How dare he presume..?

A silly, inappropriate idea. Aberforth was his main concern…

For this reason, he was walking up to the Headmistress's office with some trepidation. A chance remark by Poppy in a corridor had informed him that today was the day that Minerva would be visiting a woman called Eleanor Reeves; he planned to take advantage of her absence by using the head teacher's Floo connection to go to Hogmeade and investigate Aberforth's condition himself. The plan depended on Minerva being absent - were she not, then a conversation would follow, and he was not yet ready for one, not when his mind was almost overwhelmed by misery, anxiety, and fanciful speculation…

He was soon riding the moving staircase to his old office, attempting to imagine Aberforth the jilted lover. The more he thought about, the greater the weight of guilt he felt for thinking of anything else. How could he have forgotten the quiet young man riding beside him in a thestral carriage, or the little boy who had once felt the need to hide behind his older brother at the sight of a dog?

Albus heaved a sigh. He had always failed Aberforth… had never understood him, had never drawn him out of himself, and had always been too busy to really pay much attention to him. Another mistake to look back on and regret…

The office was mercifully silent; the portraits had all gone on walk-about, and Minerva was indeed absent. The draft caused by opening the door made various ornaments tinkle, and swept a variety of letters off the desk. Curiously, Albus picked them up, glancing through them as he returned them to their place. There was one from Harry, talking about how Blaine was continuing to be difficult, one from the Ministry, urging regular check-ups on the core, and a third from the mysterious Eleanor Reeves…

His eyes caught a phrase:

…_Poppy is right when she says twenty years is a long time, but the deepest of affections can last far longer…_

He snatched the letter back up, breath catching in his throat. He scanned paragraphs, caught his own name-

…_I rather get the impression that you are not informing me of everything… Have you discovered something new about Albus which led to a resurgence in your feelings? I would urge you to speak about it with Aberforth…_

_…Any physical resemblance to Albus is understandably disturbing, would certainly remind you of him…_

_…I have to admit being rather surprised… I myself thought you were over your grief… twenty years is far greater a time than I expected would needed for recovery…_

_…It was very unwise of him to court you with images of his brother…_

The air hissed between his teeth. Albus squeezed his eyes shut, and crumpled the letter to his chest. …Confirmation…Apparent confirmation… Could she really harbour feelings for him, emotions strong enough to be gratified by a photo album crammed full of a man she had had affection for? The way their eyes had met, just as Aberforth had waited for a response to his proposal… Merlin, could it be..?

Out of the corner of his eye, the Sorting Hat twitched. He needed no further urging; he snatched the hat off its shelf and rammed it on, nearly ripping the rip off in his haste.

"Have we found something out?"

_Does she love me? _Albus thought desperately, clenching his hands into fists. _Has she loved me all this time? _

The Sorting Hat made an approving noise. "Less of the dignity, more of the feeling! You're well on the way to sorting yourself out, I must say. But hush, let me see what has happened…"

Yet his mind was full of Minerva, full of the goddess. There was no dark recess of his brain that had not been saturated in Minerva, Minerva gazing lovingly at him, and letting _him_ curl his fingers in her hair… Guilt was a hard surface that the softness of his thoughts bounced off of. Yes, Aberforth, Aberforth and his rejection…

"Oh yes. Well, I saw you reveal yourself to her - I was watching. About time too, Albus, though you might have done it more delicately. As to your question… well, I'd say the answer is pretty obvious."

Something exploded inside of him. _Oh Merlin, please!_

"I'm not Merlin. Merlin's dead, and cannot help you. Honestly, Albus, you exasperate me. You spend your whole time saying some very fine, sensible things, but then you completely fail to act upon them."

His soul was reeling. _My darling, my dearest, my goddess..!_

"Why, thank you," said the hat snidely. "Though I've always thought of myself as male, by the way-"

_No, no! What can I do, I am still Brian, I am still trapped-_

"Only as much as you want to be."

Albus was tempted to fling the hat off and stamp on it, but phoenix song seemed to filling his ribcage, buoying him up to the sky. To know that Minerva had loved him-

_-But my body-_

He came back down to earth, gradually. Yes, Brian Potter, blasted boy that he was, still existed, still imprisoned him, no matter what the Sorting Hat said-

"Albus," snapped the hat. "What House did I place you in?"

_Gryffindor, but how that is relevant-_

"You're not acting like one. _Bold and full of daring, _Ex-Headmaster Dumbledore."

_You think I don't fight for her? _

"Finally! The fellow gets it! And I also told you that you had Slytherin cunning - so please do me a favour, and _use_ it!"

Albus took the hat off, spirit full of fire. No, it was true, his passion was insurmountable, it was beyond being stopped by obstacles, no matter how huge they were! He would find a way to woo Minerva, yes, he would presume to do just that! Could he surrender a goddess so easily? Of course not!

Yet… no way occurred to him. There was no way of returning him to his adult body, and-

…_Slytherin cunning…_

He exited the office, original resolution of visiting Aberforth entirely forgotten.

* * *

Hagrid shoved his large hands into his pockets, out of the reach of the icy wind. Few others were to be found on Hogmeade's streets in such unforgiving weather; all were at home, or else finding headaches and dubious company in the pubs. The Three Broomsticks would be packed, and Rosmerta's Butterbeer would be warming the stomachs of the late-night regulars, just as the hours passed into the next day. The Hog's Head, however, the half-giant knew to be empty… it had been empty this past week…

His meandering, troubled footsteps took him past Honeydukes and Zonko's, down the cold, cobbled streets to where the grisly sign creaked in the gale. The dusty windows of The Hog's Head were boarded up, and the gaps between the boards gaped emptily, enforcing absence.

Hagrid stopped, and stared sadly at the door.

_CLOZED _

He hesitated before knocking, but remembered who Aberforth was: Dumbledore's brother. He had a duty to offer an ear, or at least a drinking partner…

The knock sounded hollowly. He waited, as the wind whistled ominously through the eaves, howling past the corners. No response.

"Aberforth?"

There was still nothing, and it occurred to him that there was a kind of deserted hostility about the place. Shuddering, and suddenly wishing for the warmth of The Three Broomsticks, he departed.

Above him, two narrow eyes watched. An attentive listener would have heard footsteps, and the sound of a bottle being opened.

* * *

Moaning Myrtle often considered it odd, how her toilets attracted more Potions enthusiasts than actual bladder-pained students. She could quite clearly remember that sweet Potter boy and that uncouth Weasley placing a cauldron on that same toilet… And who could forget the hilarious Granger girl with her furry ears and whiskers?

She said as much to this newcomer, this skinny boy with too much hair and quaint little spectacles, but he was rather rude, poring over his potion, ignoring her. _Boys. _Myrtle was half inclined to cry about it, but he had been so sympathetic about her death that she decided not to. Perhaps he was still thinking about how horrible it had been.

She fantasised this way for several minutes, sitting in the U-Bend. Perhaps, she kept on peeking, she would see him drop a few empathetic tears into his potion, and then perhaps he would want to talk with her, tell her about himself… She giggled at the idea…

His name was Potter!

Oh, well, she had known his father as well, his heroic father who had _avenged _her death… She got quite emotional; she had to float around the pipes and hiccup for a bit. And this boy, this son of his… Another giggle. Oh, there was definite advantage to hovering around, seeing so many people growing up when she never had - he was going to be good-looking, she could tell, _frightfully _good-looking…

He still wouldn't speak to her! He was too focussed on his potion… but so polite in telling her not to disturb him! Of course, he was a genius at work, and she was his muse…

"What are you making?" she'd asked eventually.

"Aging Potion," he had said, not even looking up from the cauldron.

"Oooh," she'd whispered, floating as close to him as she dared. "What do you want to make that for? You don't want to become an ugly old man!"

His answer was so incomprehensible!

"You're wrong," he'd responded. "That is _exactly _what I want to be."

**A/N: Note to self: must not over-use the word 'incomprehensible.'**


	21. Absinthe

**A/N: I love you all, reviewers! I'm sorry that updates will have to be slower now I'm back at school with nose to the grindstone. Anyways, here we go again!**

Minerva McGonagall kneaded her temples, and attempted to expel Filius's sympathetic face and high-pitched voice from her mind. The Deputy Headmaster had at last succeeded in penetrating her sanctuary, as his superior eventually realised that solitude was an impediment to a number of important forms. Her emotions had dominated the school for long enough, and so the miniature wizard had managed to unwittingly plant another barb-

"_I'm terribly sorry about what happened. If there's anything I can do-" _

No, there was nothing that Filius could do. Even Eleanor Reeves seemed at a total loss; her visit to her counsellor had been nothing but a series of extended silences, accompanied by tears, and the unpleasant sensation of sitting a few feet away from someone whose assessment she had so dramatically defied, and who no longer understood her. Their conversation had been stunted by her inability to divulge the whole story - and without that vital ingredient, Eleanor found her behaviour just as unfathomable as everyone else.

"_You loved him?"_

_"Yes!" _

_"But you experienced a resurgence of feelings for Albus?"_

_"Yes!"_

_"And there was no obvious trigger?"_

She had shaken her head, unable to go so far as to verbally deceive a woman who had helped her out of a previous abyss. Once again, she was alone. She doubted that she could make either Poppy or Rolanda believe that Brian was Albus, and there was no telling what damage the truth could do to Harry and Ginny - and there was no justification in passing information on that would undoubtedly eventually reach them. As for Albus himself…

A knock at the door interrupted her thoughts.

Wondering if Filius had made some sort of general announcement in the staff room that the Headmistress was now available to sympathise with, wearily she called her assent. Perhaps she was due for a bone-crushing hug from Hagrid, or else the smug satisfaction of Sybil?

Martha Read's entrance sent her heart plummeting. Stiffly, she twisted her face into a smile. Martha swept towards the desk, watching her coldly, not attempting to return the Headmistress's grimace. Cold eyes scanned her; a muscle twitched in one cheek. Had the resentment descended that far, had the ball just added a dash of contempt into their relationship?

The Transfiguration professor sat down, still observing her quietly. Minerva thought vaguely that this was quite unusual for Martha, who would usually be either gushing or complaining before she even entered the room - but then, she _had _been so curt and organised on the subject of the attack on the person of Brian…

"Martha, what can I do for you?"

The other woman appeared to consider her words before answering. "I would like to ensure that the events of a fortnight ago do not occur again."

The Headmistress blinked, and tried to focus.

"A fortnight..? I'm afraid-"

"I am of course referring to the attempt made on the life of Mr Potter."

She felt herself being swept away by such organisation, such a keen focus on significant events that used to be so characteristic of herself…

"Although the culprits are now in the hands of the Ministry, I'm aware that guarantees of safety can never be made, and would like to give personal lessons to Mr Potter on the subject of self-defence. I believe he shows great potential-"

Minerva held up a hand, in order to stem the flood. Confused, she searched Martha's eyes, suddenly feeling as though this efficient woman before her was a complete stranger. "Martha… Have you any specific reason to feel continuing concern for Mr Potter? And your area of expertise is Transfiguration; Professor Brady-"

"-Is hopelessly mediocre as a Defence Against the Dark Arts professor."

A flash of her old temper restored her scattered thoughts.

"I rather think that that is an evaluation best reached by the inspectors or myself, Martha. What particular qualifications do you have in the area?"

The Transfiguration professor remained silent, but her jaw tightened.

"I'll repeat myself: what reasons do you have to fear for Mr Potter?"

"Let's not pretend ignorance. The neo-Dark movement has a focus in a person once believed to be lurking in that forest. Whether or not he is or was actually there is irrelevant; unsavoury elements have already been attracted to Hogwarts because of it. Only last week Hagrid had to remove a member of the public who was wandering around the grounds."

The Headmistress shifted in her seat, anger growing. Martha spoke as though she was in charge of the castle and its affairs! Yes, there would always be some who would try and exploit her period of weakness… No, the woman was speaking sense; this was her prejudice back again with her pain-

"Your manner has been very different, recently," she said aloud, unable to curb her tongue. "I suppose you think my personal affairs have rendered me incapable of looking after Hogwarts and its interests."

For the first time, Martha looked uncomfortable. "By no means-"

"Forgive me."

Minerva rested her head in her hands, trying to quell the unreasonable rage within her. Fury and misery were all too easily wedded, not to mention _exhaustion… _Weak sunlight shimmered around her.

"That was out of line," she croaked. "Forgive me. It is a sensible suggestion, though I still see no reason why Professor Brady should not give the lessons instead. I'm sure Mr Potter's father would greatly approve of the idea. I will endeavour to have it arranged as soon as possible."

After the Transfiguration professor had left, Minerva closed her eyes and leant backwards, distantly feeling that she had misjudged Martha - but then, she had misjudged everything. Those who prided themselves on strength had none when it counted, and those who appeared weak concealed a heartwood which could endure all, and carry them into prominence… And what was there left to think about the tribulations of love?

The roses had died.

* * *

Rolanda Hooch's legs directed her without the conscious intervention of her brain, and she knew better than to interrupt their course down the darkened Hogmeade main street, even when they strode right past The Three Broomsticks. This was by no means the first time this had happened, and there was a wisdom in it, even if it was a rather impulsive one.

_Hoochy, she goes - where the wind blows…_

Even Poppy's old rhyme, flitting randomly through her brain, brought only a weak smile to her face. Rolanda was in an unusually pensive mood - one she disliked as a rule; "a life without humour was a life without meaning," as her father had often said, but there was no escaping the heavy sadness that the past week had wrought on her, on everyone. Who could sit and cheerily eat breakfast in the Great Hall, when the memory of Aberforth racing away through the doors was still so fresh? How could anybody fail to lose their temper at the First-Years who gossiped about Minerva as though she was a nameless person in a magazine? Even she, Flying instructor and broom enthusiast, could admit that the emotions that a Quidditch match aroused were not quite as hideously real as those that the ball had. In some ways she shared the stunned innocence of the less malicious of the students; how could anything of that sort have happened at Hogwarts?

Naïve, as she had been present first when Myrtle's body was discovered in the girl's toilets, and then when Dumbledore had plummeted from the Astronomy Tower, when abstract ideas such as war and murder had manifested within the school itself. Only a child could be gullible enough to believe that mortar and stone could be a barrier against the less pleasant aspects of the world.

Her thoughts did not improve when she saw the building that her feet were taking her towards - the abandoned Hog's Head, as dormant as when Hagrid had ventured to its door. The regulars had stopped wandering up and peering hopefully at the 'Clozed' sign, and had either defaulted to The Three Broomsticks or remained indoors.

Rolanda stopped, and was about to force her feet away again when there was a crash from around the back of the pub, and a sudden movement in the shadows. Nervously, she stepped forwards, creeping around the side of the building along the derelict fence-

The side gate creaked open. Whoever had opened it had leaned their full weight against it; a dark figure crashed to the floor. An obscenity floated on the night wind, and the figure began to struggle upwards, just as she moved closer.

"Aberforth?"

Her mouth realised before her eyes did. The man leaning against the fence was at first unrecognisable as the well-dressed wizard of the week before; his robes were filthy and unkempt, and his beard and hair had somehow managed to surpass their previous grizzled states to descend into a chaos of tangles. Bloodshot eyes gleamed dimly in the darkness; the night reduced him to a blot. A few seconds passed before she realised that he was cradling a bottle to his chest, or that the dulled blue eyes were unfocussed.

Appalled, she watched as he took a slurp, sucking like a baby. Liquid gurgled against the glass. The sight was so horrendous that the flying instructor found herself striding towards him, with the vague aim of dashing the bottle out of his grasp.

"Who'sh that?"

The smell of alcohol wafting from was enough to make her feel dizzy. She stopped belatedly, the idea of direct action losing its appeal.

"Rolanda Hooch."

His face twitched and he took another gulp, seemingly remembering something unpleasant to do with her. The old wizard took a tentative step away from the fence, swayed, and retreated back to it, muttering. Rolanda struggled for words.

"You can't do this. You're the barman!"

Yet again, she found her naivety flabbergasted. She felt a kind of blank horror; she could not progress from that simple fact, that eternal image of the sober barman. Aberforth spent his days watching people get drunk, and curled his lip in contempt whenever it happened. Abstemious eyes had rested on her whenever she had had one too many - and how many times had she seen him boot the likes of Mundungus Fletcher out whenever they became a little merry? Before the fiasco with Minerva, _sober _had been the most positive word she had assigned to him; other words such as _bitter, cantankerous _and _humourless _had aligned themselves perfectly. How had she judged that such a man would react to the aforementioned fiasco? Why, with _reservation; _he would withdraw, and then emerge with a soul of steel…

But no, she was leaping to conclusions - a one-off, surely-

"That'sh what I am," Aberforth responded. He laughed, wretchedly. "Never could have been… anything else."

He began to meander back through the gate. Rolanda was seized with an urge to ensure his safety; Merlin knew how many things he could fall over in the darkness. The flying instructor fumbled for her wand.

"_Lumos."_

The narrow shaft of light produced barely penetrated the night, but it was enough. She followed him through the gate into a very small and cluttered garden, tufts of grass concealing flowerpots and bricks, and a compost heap which seemed determined to consume as much space as possible. A ghostly shape stirred near one end; she jumped, but the sound of a goat's bleating reassured her. Looking ahead, she could see Aberforth disappearing inside - the old wizard apparently picking his way easily around the obstacles even whilst inebriated.

The door was falling off its hinges, and the equally pitch stairwell inside was manifest with cobwebs; Rolanda repaired and cleared as she passed, wondering why Aberforth hadn't done so before. An ominous feeling settled in her stomach as her foot knocked against something which chinked and sloshed. Pushing away the persistant suspicion, she followed the staggering wizard up the stairs.

Rolanda had never been inside Aberforth's living quarters - there had been no reason to do so, and the idea of the barman being anywhere other than at his post had simply not occurred to her. Nevertheless the imagined alternative formed and shattered in mind the moment she entered.

There was only two rooms, spacious but dank and cold, cobwebs lurking in the corners. A moth-eaten sofa crouched like a waiting beast, sagging and resplendent with filth, and the tiny kitchen area was awash with dirty dishes. Threadbare curtains flapped at the grimy window, and the sparse furniture looked battered, second-hand. The marks of poverty were everywhere; Rolanda couldn't help but remember in contrast the old Headmaster in his magnificent robes. The stench of goats floated in the air, and something which looked suspiciously like goat-faeces lay in a heap beside the sofa. On the sofa itself lay an actual living goat, grey and grizzled with age. All this would have been quite enough without the bottles.

They were everywhere, on every surface, and piled on the floor. Shards of glass decorated the floorboards and the walls were stained, as though several times a bottle had been thrown in rage. Rolanda gaped at the bottles, calculating pints and units, reading faded labels: Ogden's Old Firewhisky, Mulled Mead, Elderflower Wine, Redcurrant Rum, Single Malt Whisky, Crowley's Gin, Hecate's Absinthe…

"Oi." Aberforth had noticed her. He pointed an unsteady finger. "Get out."

Worst suspicions confirmed, Rolanda sank down onto the sofa, beside the goat, which promptly began to nibble the edge of her robe. She ignored it as well as Aberforth, and continued to gape, at a loss for words. This man, she thought suddenly, is Albus Dumbledore's brother. She tried to imagine the former Headmaster visiting here, having a cup of tea on the same ruined sofa. The image was impossible.

Why? Why had Albus waltzed around in sumptuous robes whilst his brother suffered this? Surely he had offered help-

-And Aberforth had refused it, had stood on his battered pride like a general sitting on a nag! That was one question answered, and the other was almost redundant, but still her brain asked it, as did her mouth-

"What have you done to yourself?"

Aberforth frowned and took another swig from the bottle.

"Did you…?" Rolanda gestured helplessly at the bottles. "Did you drink all this in a week? Are you drinking your entire stock?"

The barman slumped onto the sofa as well, beside her with the goat between them. He stroked it absent-mindedly, but a spasm of pain crossed his face; he knocked back another gulp. In that moment when his countenance wasn't set into a glower, the resemblance to Albus was horribly clear - had that been what Minerva had seen? Or had she loved this unhappy, scowling man?

The professor found herself patting him on the back, empathy too deep for words. Aberforth gave her a blank look, and withdrew another bottle from his stained robes.

"Whisky?"

_Why not, _she thought, uncorking the bottle wearily. He needed help, and the only help she could offer was company.

The silence stretched - now words were needed.

"Mad-Eye and Poppy are officially a couple now," she said irrelevantly.

Aberforth grunted.

"He's liked her for years," she added.

His knuckles whitened around the neck of the bottle. "Bloody Auror. Comin' here, interferin'…"

"Am I interfering?"

Blue eyes found hers. "Not offerin' opinions are you? Not givin' me an effin' speech."

"Mad-Eye gave you a speech?"

Aberforth's gaze hardened. "Told me what I ought to think. Acted like that bloody eye could see into my soul or summin'."

"He was probably trying to help," said Rolanda awkwardly, shifting on the sofa and pulling her robe out of the goat's reach.

"Hah. Nobody can help. And the only reason why people try to help is to feel good about themselves, like saints… Real little heroes, they are."

She said nothing.

"I don't need help, woman."

"I think you do."

His look was poisonous. "You're her friend-" His voice trembled. "She's probably told you all about me-"

"No-"

"-What a miserable old git I am-"

"-Certainly not-"

"-How I fail to _compare-"_

"Aberforth, stop it!" Rolanda grasped one of his gnarled hands, wanting him to believe. "She's said nothing of the sort, and I know she thinks nothing of the sort! Do you think I came here to laugh at you? And if - if you think I'm in her confidence right now then you're wrong. Neither me nor Poppy know why what happened happened; she won't speak to us, she just locks herself up and cries, just like after Dumbledore-"

"_My _name's Dumbledore," said the old wizard hollowly.

"-Albus-"

He groaned as though the name had wounded him, and snatched his hand away, bowing his head. She expected him to eject her angrily back onto the street, but instead he was merely silent and still. Then-

"No. No. He _was _Dumbledore. I am nothing. I'm jus' a miserable old sod; there'sh no wonder in it turning out like thish…" He pierced her with a look. "D'you think I enjoy thish - bein' a creature of envy? D'you think I like him _always - winning - at - everything, _even when he's _dead-"_

"Ab-"

Confused eyes stared at her. "I - I did everythin' - I knew she wouldn't love me like she loved him, but I thought - and that was all, that was my _best-"_

Stunned, Rolanda could only gaze back. She felt as though she had stumbled across someone's diary and had a page read to her aloud. Was Aberforth now too drunk to realise she was there, or had he decided to rave about his private life to a woman who had once impulsively accused him of harassing the very female who was involved in it? Hearing this was obscene, wrong, wicked. She could not listen.

She was up, striding towards the door-

"Funny, how that happens," he remarked bitterly. "The moment I shtart bein' me, people walk away."

He might as well have lassoed her; horror drove her back into her seat. No, she protested mentally, as he gave her a twisted smile. No, she was a child still - she was a little girl - he needed someone mature to listen and help, someone emotionally sensitive-

"She's shaid not a word about me?" he was asking, laying aside the bottle and opening another.

Panicked, she struggled to think. "After the ball-"

"I heard - apparently she _thought_ she loved me."

"She did - I'm sure-"

"No."

Aberforth looked at her with a face grey with despair. He suddenly threw back his head and downed the contents of the new bottle in several vast gulps. Afterwards, he closed his eyes and Rolanda saw the line of his mouth wriggle suspiciously. An awkward silence followed. More than ever, she wanted to flee, regretting that she'd ever gone after him in the first place, but she was frozen to the sofa.

Eventually, he fumbled in his robes. The witch expected another bottle to emerge, but instead his hand clutched a battered old wand. He stared at the point meditatively, and then dragged the goat into his arms.

The animal bleated and nuzzled against its master. Rolanda wondered if he was about to cast some of the fabled 'experimental charms,' but he merely buried his weathered face in the goat's fur. After crooning something secret in its ear, he drew back, and raised his wand.

He gazed at Rolanda, wand still held aloft. "Thank you for comin.' I appreshiate it."

Was this the desired dismissal? She rose-

-He spun the wand round, so that the tip touched his head-

-Disbelief-

"_Avada-"_

"_EXPELLIARMUS!"_

Aberforth's wand described a semi-circle, sailing into the air, but Rolanda lunged forward and grabbed one of his wrists, as though he was still holding one, still on the brink - and he was, he would always remain there; he was now a ghost, with a white, shocked face that echoed her own-

-His other hand ripped open his robes as he wrenched her free, darted across the room towards his wand. She threw herself across the coffee table, bottles smashing as she grasped at his triumphant fist-

He rested the point of the deadly wand against his exposed chest, and flung her to one side-

"_Diffindo! Diffindo! Av-"_

-She knocked it out of his hands again, but the Severing Charm had sliced through his torso - blood was gushing over his robes-

He swayed, and sank to the floor. Rolanda half fell towards him, watching numbly as his ragged undershirt grew scarlet and sodden. Her own wand moved through the air agonisingly slowly; his face was growing slack and absent, he was willing himself into oblivion…

"_Tela Resarcio!"_

The tip of the wood was reddened with his blood, but the gaping wounds began to close up, albeit untidily. Aberforth's eyelids fluttered, but her eyes were mesmerised by crimson… She found herself shaking, unable to erase the image of the man before her turning his wand on himself.

As the gashes sealed, she spelled him into Poppy's often lauded 'recovery sleep,' and levitated him onto the sofa. Then she sat back, and stared at him, thoughts as incoherent as her words would have been. The lethal wand rested now in her own pocket; the idea of returning it to Aberforth was absurd. What was there to be done? She would have to tell-

-Not Minerva; Merlin, that would just about undo her-

-Poppy, though, Poppy and perhaps Hagrid, perhaps Alastor - and she would keep on visiting, she would keep on making sure that the bloodstained man over there was alive-

She bowed her head and wept. A few feet away, Aberforth slept, dead to the world.

* * *

Another two weeks passed before enough Aging Potion had been brewed for the plan to be valid. Brian dodged Eric's worried gazes, and disappeared from the Common Room entirely, only to be seen in lessons and last thing at night - and, every now and then, with the bored Professor Brady, whose enthusiasm for teaching Brian self-defence was soon surpassed by his desire for coffee. Similarly, both Madams Pomfrey and Hooch began to be rarely seen, and when they were, it was together in an anxious huddle. Once, Moody was to be glimpsed having some sort of argument with the former out on the grounds, with the latter waving her hands in supplication behind them. Brian expressed an interest which Eric couldn't help but think seemed completely superficial, and then disappeared again.

As the potion neared completion, Albus suspected that his friend spotted other peculiarities, such as that of Brian receiving a package from Gladrags Wizardwear containing august robes that were many sizes too big for him, or being found muttering under his breath about how roses were now "out of the question." There was no helping it, and he felt too distracted, too nervous and stretched to the limit, to pay much attention to Eric's puzzled frowns.

_Minerva,_

_Are you free on Saturday afternoon? I feel that I might risk inconveniencing you. _

_Words cannot express my sorrow at how I daresay you are currently feeling. I repeat that I am not angry over what happened concerning my brother, merely concerned. Both of you have my affection. _

_I hope that you have not decided never to write to me; you never responded to my last letter. _

His daring faltered; had the 'affection' comment been enough? No, he would write more-

_My dearest, I look forward to our meeting._

_Yours,_

_Albus_

He had not the audacity to write 'love,' not even when the Sorting Hat was so amazingly confident of his feelings being reciprocated, but hoped the reader might sense his sincerity in the 'yours.' He read over the letter critically, knowing that he was allowing verbosity to obscure the emotions within. Nevertheless, he sent it off, and received:

_Dear Albus, _

_I will be available on Saturday._

_I will continue to write, if you are sure that you desire it. _

_Minerva_

Did it not exist, or was it also obscured? Parchment yielded nothing; only the meeting would reveal if there was anything to reveal.

Minerva! His darling Minerva, whom he had not even glimpsed for weeks! And he was to go as himself..!

Saturday morning found him in a state of quivering nerves and anticipation. He played Wizard's Chess with Eric impatiently, won absent-mindedly, and attempted to feign interest in Cal's jokes. Brian was a point of tension in a sea of relaxed contentment; the other Gryffindors were wasting the weekend happily, seemingly oblivious to his sweating palms and churning stomach. He checked the potion spasmodically, whenever Eric left him alone.

The young Weasley was apparently determined to have Brian enjoy himself. Whilst he grinned when Albus's persona accepted the invitation to go flying in the run-up to lunchtime, he seemed less happy when Brian went shooting off all over the pitch, diving savagely, brushing the grass daringly with his broomstick and wildly weaving in and out of the goalposts until the watching Mark asked whether the Potter boy was mad or suicidal. Mad was the best guess, Albus thought, doing a mid-air roll. He tried to lose himself in the wind, but Eric's cries of fear urged him down before he could.

"What the hell were you doing?"

They were walking across the grounds towards the main building, broomsticks over their shoulders. Eric was looking furious; Albus arranged Brian's expression into one of confusion.

"What-"

"You know what I mean! You could have got yourself killed!"

The artifice was failing, and so he dropped it. Eric's cheeks were as red as his hair.

"Listen - I don't know what's wrong with you at the moment, but we're mates, yeah? You can tell me what's up, whatever it is! If you don't want to tell me, that's fine too! But don't go pulling stupid stunts like that!"

Touched by the boy's loyalty to Brian, Albus remained silent. Their journey up into the school and into the Great Hall for lunch passed without a word, and Eric kept on shooting Brian frightened sideways glances, as if wondering if he had offended him. Albus tried to smile in response, but his face felt like lead. The chatter of the other students seemed far away, irrelevant, and he picked at his food, forcing himself to eat for the Weasley's sake. His eyes were constantly drawn to the Headmistress's empty chair, the throne of the goddess. The world was unreal; in less than a couple of hours he would be making an attempt that should have been made in another lifetime…

He left early, unable to restrain himself even for Eric's feelings. The rest of the student body was still at the House benches as he exited the Great Hall, the churning inside him reaching a crescendo. Corridors passed away quickly; soon he was outside the girl's toilets.

As he opened the door, Myrtle gave a squeal of welcome. He looked at her narrowly; it would not do to have her present when Brian shed his youthful body.

"Oh! Are you back to visit me?" the ghost giggled. "You're such a little charmer!"

"Myrtle?" He made his voice low and flattering. "Could you perhaps give me some assistance?"

Myrtle blushed silver, and stared at him fondly. "Anything for Mr Potter!"

"Could you possible keep watch outside the door whilst I do something?"

Her face fell slightly, but she nodded, and promptly floated through the wall. Albus immediately turned to the potion, which was the correct shade of indigo, and bubbling nicely. A vial stood ready by the sink, but there were other things to be checked first. He found the bag stored as he had left it, beside the door. The robes and Harry's old invisibility cloak lay rolled inside, as did the bunch of forget-me-nots he had decided on. Wondering if they would be worthy of Minerva, he transferred them to the sink before reaching for the vial.

He set the cauldron to the simmer, and scooped up as much as he could into the vial. He left the door of the cubicle open, rested the vial by the sink, and slipped off his robes, leaving only the phoenix medallion hanging at his chest.

Brian's pale, lean body confronted him from the mirror, naked as the day he was born. Albus smiled at it, for a moment glorying in the unspoilt flesh which only youth could give. Then he raised the vial to his lips.

"_Oooh…"_

Myrtle's whisper was followed by the sound of hyperventilating. Albus spotted her silver, delighted face peeping through the door.

"Myrtle!"

"Sorry!"

He waited, to make sure that she was definitely gone, before drinking the contents of the vial in one go. Noting vaguely that it tasted oddly like hot chocolate, he watched the mirror for signs of the change.

He felt it before he saw it; he felt his spinal column stretch, his ribcage expand. His limbs lengthened, and a prickling spreading over his jaw told him that his beard had started to grow. The reflection's form grew indistinct, slightly misshapen. Fascinated, he watched the years ease their way on. Soon, a young man replaced the boy in the mirror, a young man with long auburn hair and a soft, downy beard.

He slipped his adult robes on before taking another dose, stumbling and awkward at the change in his proportions. He had chosen purple trimmed with silver, embroidered with shining stars - robes which he would have worn in a previous life, robes which suited him. He savoured what he estimated to be his early twenties in the mirror before refilling the vial.

Time fast-forwarded. This time he approached a Muggle's middle age, a wizard's continuing youth. Another dose, and his beard fell to his waist, as did his hair. Old, remembered lines reappeared to mar his face, but they were beautiful in their familiarity. The last scoop of the potion flung him into late wizarding middle age; grey began to curl itself in his hair and the lines deepened. His estimation was the late eighties, early nineties. This was Albus Dumbledore before he had gone to fight Grindelwald.

Not enough Aging Potion had been made to restore him to the old man he had been in the years before his death, but it was enough; the boy was gone and the man was clear to see. Were there disadvantages in wooing Minerva over fifty years younger than he would have been? He could not care. A strange nostalgia and wonder for his old form gripped him; the reflection held him a few minutes more before he took up the forget-me-nots and retrieved Brian's wand.

He hid Brian's school-robes in the bag, and bundled them inside the cubicle. The invisibility cloak he withdrew, and a picture of himself came to him:

"_I don't need a cloak to become invisible."_

He would condescend to do so now! He wrapped the cloak around him; his reflection vanished. Looking at the empty space in the mirror where his image had been, Albus paused. Would that be all he would be to Minerva in the end, after so much? Was it even possible for her to accept the onion he had become, the man within a boy within a man? Had the Sorting Hat been false in its confidence? He had no idea what he was going to say to her. Would words even suffice? It was too late to draw back. Could any man now surrender?

Myrtle started when he opened the door, and stared right through him.

"Mr Potter? Where are you hiding?"

She floated inside the girl's toilets, and let out a piercing shriek. Outside, the portraits shivered. A reclining maiden looked up, and a group of wizards paused at their card game, exchanging nervous glances. An old witch shuddered and jumped. An unseen presence passed them by, an unseen presence which occasionally dropped blue petals.

* * *

She had turned all of the head teachers' paintings over in preparation, and had found herself resisting the urge to change into more attractive robes. Such a desire filled her with shame, and so she waited tensely at her desk, fiddling with forms and sorting papers.

Thank Merlin the roses were gone. Poppy had removed them for her, continuing to apologise profusely for what she had said straight after the ball - but the accusation was more than just. The same accusation was facing her today. This meeting with Albus was bound to be painful, even without the roses, but still, at least they were gone. At least they were gone.

His letter was baffling in its lack of hostility, in its support, in its… warmth?

_Both of you have my affection… My dearest…_

Of course, the affection was clearly platonic, and she despised herself for welcoming that extra 'est.' Three letters meant nothing… 'Dear' was a term he applied to anybody. Why, why did she devote part of her mind to Albus when Aberforth was all she should think of? Yet Albus was the reason-

No, the blame was hers. The secret was hers to bear; Poppy and Rolanda had seemingly taken the hint - now they moved together as one, worried eyes fixed elsewhere. She could not extract the reason from either of them, not that she had any right to-

That Albus did not blame her was inconceivable. What brother could see a woman treat a sibling so badly and even have any patience for a cordial acquaintance with her-

So her thoughts moved, disjointed, restless. So had they been for the past two weeks; the letter had merely intensified it all. She was an enigma to Eleanor, agony to Aberforth, abomination to Albus and a frustration for her friends. Nothing could persuade her to return yet to the Great Hall - that much would be unbearable. No, let all who demanded to see her come and find her…

_Like Alastor. _

That thought made the Headmistress wince. Moody had not turned up in person, but a letter from him had conjured his furious presence so vividly for her that she had thrown it in the fire straight after reading it. The ex-Auror had said all that she had thought, all that her mind had accused her of at night. She knew Moody had a kind of rough liking for Aberforth - perhaps it was because, like for her, he reminded him of Albus.

Albus, with his flowing white hair and beard, and twinkling blue eyes. Albus, a boy with an innocent face, but with the same eyes. Two realities endlessly colliding. A dream and a nightmare rolled into one. A wish both granted and denied. He was always with her, but a what if that remained a what if. Aberforth was also always with her, but as a spectre of guilt…

When the knock on the door came, she could not help it, she could not sit remotely at her desk. Instead, she crossed the room, and opened the door into empty air. The moving stairs stretched beneath her, mockingly vacant-

"Minerva."

A silver cloak was swept off, and the Headmistress found herself staring into the face which had haunted her for twenty years, a face with eyes as blue as the forget-me-nots below.

**A/N: I'm aware that this is getting to be a trend with me, but... I really do genuinely think this one to be awful. Absolutely NOTHING went how I had planned it. Still, hope you enjoyed it!**


	22. Rapture

**A/N: Enjoy! Thanks for all reviewers!**

The room spun. Around her revolved a dozen Minervas - a young girl attending her first Transfiguration lesson, a woman going over the school's finances with Him, an older, more decrepit person gazing blearily at a dormant portrait, trying to hold back her tears, a headmistress arguing with a solemn boy - and all the time, Him, Albus Dumbledore, looming up at her, a life no longer in the abstract-

She swooned; for a few moments the world was reduced to Albus's worried blue eyes - and then the touch, the touch of his familiar hand on her shoulder-

"Minerva!"

Only his grasp kept her standing. Speechless, she ran her eyes over his crooked nose, those beloved lines, that hair that was auburn again - a face that was no death's head, a body that was no spectre of the grave! Had she truly believed it until this moment, had she ever accepted that he was back until he stood before her?

And no boy, but a man - and she, a woman-

"Minerva…"

His handsome face was creased into an expression of worry. The blood rushed to her face, but fascination kept her eyes on his…

"I know this must be a tremendous shock - I should have anticipated it. My dear, I only wished to surprise you."

"You've… succeeded," she said weakly, trying to steady herself. His hand fell from her shoulder; her skin seemed to burn under her robes where it had touched. Suddenly, the thought of Aberforth came to her, sobering her with what felt like a jet of cold water. Her eyes dropped-

"For you, my dear. A little present."

He thrust the forget-me-nots at her. Minerva gaped at them, and stared into his sincere, friendly face in confusion. He proffered them more firmly; she took them and held them with the sensation of nothing being quite real. The blue of the flowers seemed to be the brightest thing in the room, next to his eyes. Forget-me-nots.

"How could I?" she whispered aloud. "Thank you."

She dared look up, and thought she saw a flash of surprise in the aforementioned eyes. At that point, the same holy hand that had touched her shoulder suddenly took her own, enclosing it.

"I forget my manners; you have had a shock, and still I keep you standing."

He tugged her over towards the desk and the chair, obviously intending to lead her to it as though they weren't in an office but at a ball. Minerva allowed herself to be led, feeling as though he could have led her off a cliff and she would not have minded. The forget-me-nots made her oblivious to everything, until Albus let go of her hand and gestured at the chair with a small bow. The sight of the head teacher's chair sent a pang through her; could she have the audacity to take his right-?

"That's not my chair," she said softly. "You have the greater right to sit in it."

"Most certainly not. I am no longer Headmaster, and I see no reason why I should still occupy a chair more suited to a fair lady."

She blushed again, and sat, unable to protest. He dragged the other chair around so that they sat behind the desk together, as though intent on conversation - intimacy? No, interrogation… A sick horror welled up within her. Truth - as much as she could reveal - was tantamount; she would make no excuses, she would not cozen him into sympathy-

"Albus, I - I do not - I will not lie to you-"

He sat up straight, with wide eyes.

"-I treated your brother appallingly - why you should give me flowers - my actions are beyond all justification-"

She was leaning forward in her chair, knuckles whitening over the arms, forget-me-nots almost cascading out of her lap - her desperation was contradicting her, her words betrayed her as insufferable… Tension and no doubt, anger, had made him rigid in his seat; the sight choked her-

"-I shamed him publicly - I led him to believe-"

To her astonishment, Albus leaned forward and snatched up her hand again, seemingly almost as desperate as herself - and that was surely just a strange idea of hers; Albus was _never _desperate-

"My dearest Minerva, do not for one second feel that I hold you accountable for what occurred! I rather get the impression that my brother overestimated the depth of your attachment-"

"-Due to my behaviour-"

"-Which was natural for a woman in love. There are, after all, degrees of love, just as there are of anything in the world. What occurred was a catastrophe for the pair of you, for which there is no blame that can be attributed to anyone. Alas, words do not suffice, but I offer my condolences, such as they are."

His look was almost tender, and he curled his fingers in her own. The blood burned in her face. Of course, how could she have presumed to predict his reaction? No, he was concealing it, surely. But what motives were there for doing so?

"Albus - please, your _brother-" _

"-Is beyond my aid. I doubt that my appearance would be taken to be genuine, or that it would be welcome. I can only hope…"

Worry flashed across his face; Minerva sensed him smooth it away before continuing.

"Forgive me for inconveniencing you - I'm aware that after such events, privacy is a precious thing-"

"Oh - no, no!" Still stunned, she gazed at his form wonderingly, and then stared at their interlocked fingers, delighting in his touch in spite of guilt… As if sensing her stare, he suddenly drew his hand away, leaving her own bereft. Another kind of coldness settled in her; she was reminded of such things as propriety, and the amiable distance of a friendship. She did not want amiable distance. The forget-me-nots sat in her lap boldly, suggestive of ideas best not thought of - but nevertheless, why forget-me-nots? Was he concerned that he did not retain a place in her memory? If so, why was he concerned? A natural desire? After all, he was dead to all but her…

"May I ask..?"

His voice was low and tentative. For the first time in her life, Minerva saw Albus Dumbledore hesitate.

"May I ask… have you been in contact with him since?"

Before she could answer, he shook his head and blinked rapidly. "No, no - don't answer that; forgive me, that was uncalled for. I was wondering - should you be willing to continue with the engagement-"

"Albus, you are entitled to ask whatever you may on the subject. And I refused the engagement."

"Ah," he said, looking more uncharacteristically awkward than ever, twisting his hands together. "I meant that you may not have decided to break off the connection - if you still hold it in esteem - to enquire, out of curiosity - and care of the familial bond, of course - if your association, that is to say, your ardour remains, that there might be some salvage…"

The Headmistress blinked. First hesitation, and now a very strange beating about the bush, as though he could not bring himself to be fully open… He was embarrassed, she realised, embarrassed by how he had asked about her emotions rather than some administrational problem. The cool logic of it calmed her slightly; she tried to blot out the memory of Aberforth's face.

"No," she said heavily. "I have not been in contact with him since… I do not believe it to be 'salvageable' in any sense of the word."

"Your affection…"

An almost uncontrollable urge to say that her affection had been completely transferred to another man held her silent for a moment. Truth, repeated her mind piously, truth.

"To some degree remains."

His silence was as abrupt as her own, and the muscles in his face stiffened. Was rage now setting in? Would his gaze turn to ice, condemn her as it had condemned Barty Crouch? One fist clenched. When he next spoke, it was in fits and starts, as if every word was wrenched from him, and in a voice of restrained calm:

"Then - then - pardon me for my presumption - I would advise you-"

She heard him swallow.

"-I would advise you to - to make contact, to see whether his feelings remain unchanged-"

Minerva found herself sitting up straight and staring right into the clouded sapphire. "I have no doubt that he now loathes me, not without cause, and I will not once again fool myself into emotions of less strength than what he deserves."

"Fool yourself?"

The slip of the tongue hung in the air between them, making the air gravid, heavy. For one wild second, she thought she detected an expression of relief from him. She searched for an excuse-

"An old woman responds foolishly to flattery," she ended up saying harshly.

Albus abruptly seized her hand again; now that she was not dazed by his touch, she could be perplexed about it, even whilst wishing he would pull her out of his seat and into his arms…

"I'm not aware of this 'old woman' you are talking about, Minerva. She sounds thoroughly unpleasant, but I'm quite sure I've never met her."

"She _is _and I'm afraid you have."

"I don't believe it." His eyes flashed frighteningly, his grip crushed her fingers.

"You must believe it. You're flattering her now, and I've just said that flattery makes her foolish."

"Then I will flatter all the more; I would adore her to be foolish."

Her breath was stolen away so suddenly that the words in her throat died. Shaken, she stared at him, and again there was that awkwardness - and again, something said which reduced them both to silence, something which held disproportionate meaning to what he had intended-

"Would you like a cup of tea?"

Minerva was vaguely shocked to hear herself say something so banal in the middle of it all. Albus gave her a blank look.

"And - and perhaps we should go into the private chambers - the office isn't exactly comfortable-"

"Of course, my dear."

He rose and walked to the tapestry with what Minerva couldn't help as see as a chivalrous kind of grace; there was the aura of a knight about him as he waited for her to hobble over - she had the impression that his reaction would be extreme if she so much as dropped a handkerchief. A ridiculous notion, and she brushed it aside before entering her private chamber. She sensed him follow her; the concept sent a shiver up her spine.

Upon reaching the living room, she could not help but turn and see him anew in the guttering glow of the candles, auburn glinting and dancing with a greater flame. His eyes met hers and she turned away under the pretence of making some tea; the impact of his returned gaze had reddened her cheeks again, especially when his look… No, it was her foolishness again - the idea of Albus looking at her tenderly was absurd. She made the tea hurriedly, noting that she still remembered to give him three sugars, as though twenty years had made no impression at all.

"Thank you," he said as she handed his cup to him. He sat, took a sip, and looked at her over the rim of the cup; she suddenly knew that he was having the same thought as her.

Sitting, she searched for words. The subject was obvious - their only connection was Transfiguration, so Transfiguration it would be.

"Is your research going well?"

"Rather badly, I'm afraid."

"If you need equipment-"

He shook his head, but his gaze deepened, increasing in intensity. "No," he whispered, "I do not need equipment. I need inspiration."

"Inspiration?"

"Yes. I require no less than divine intervention. A muse. A goddess."

His expression forbade her to look away, so she remained fixed by his eyes, more completely hypnotised than a vole by a weasel's dance. _Merlin, Merlin… _She felt herself trembling, and something inside which she took to be her vanity was quivering too, whispering suggestions. The world seemed to pale with her face, but his voice intoxicated her:

"Of course… I speak as though such a divinity would be my servant, but my belief is that it would be the reverse. Man is at the mercy of the divine, he is a subject to his passions - a slave to them in fact, a slave to the muse. He merely has trouble expressing them."

"No doubt… that some Greek poets would agree with you," she gasped.

"Ah, but I was more thinking of Rome, not Greece."

Words. The air was thick was them, heavy with them; she could add no more, was incapable of doing so - her mind was racing, struggling to comprehend. He could not be flirting with her, no certainly that concept was preposterous, even if it sated her with sweetness - it was all her own emotions, her own twisted perception… Those wise, powerful eyes were watching her and she was saying nothing-

Trying to bury the silence, she took a gulp of tea, deliberately tilting the cup up so as to hide him from view. The sight of him was distracting and perplexing in itself; his existence - the mere fact of his life - still transfixed a part of her, filling her with an insidious joy which ignored all circumstances. Her thoughts were moving in a fit of histrionics - she wanted him to know her grief, to reach his hand into the very depths of it and suffer with her, realise how much his return meant.

But his words! Idle philosophy of course, but so many undercurrents to fuel her imagination, so many alternative interpretations. Silliness. Though why on earth he was discussing notions rather than facts-

"Minerva…"

She looked up, and in that startled second saw that his face held more words, utterances which transformed his eyes into those of a frightened boy's-

"Albus, I-"

At once, he rose from his seat and turned away almost brusquely, before walking over to the window. He laid one hand on the sill and spoke to the pane.

"Forgive me. I was about to say something improper."

Her body acted before her mind. She got up and dared move towards him. "Improper? When have you ever been improper?"

"Ever since the circumstances became so, my dear."

"What were you going to say?"

"Something presumptuous. You must forgive an old man his foolishness."

She laughed. "Then you must forgive an old woman her curiosity and, what's more, satisfy it."

"You are most certainly not an old woman."

Moving round beside him, she could see that his face was now blank and closed. Impulsively, she pulled the pins out of her hair; her bun dissolved, and the grey hair tumbled around her shoulders. She saw his eyes widen, dart towards her, and then back again.

"I'm afraid the colour of my hair contradicts you."

"Nevertheless, you are not old. You shall never be old to me."

A tremor went through her. "I rather think that when Brian is a little older himself-"

The spectacles flashed and he whirled around, both hands descending upon her shoulders. He leaned forward, and, for one wild second, fantasy seemed to become possibility-

"Not another word," he said hoarsely, quietly. "Say nothing more about Brian, and say nothing more about the future. The past and present are all that matter. Do you not think that that possibility does not torture me? Or that my salvation was always that I would leave others behind and not the other way around? I dare not envisage such a day when I might lose you, when I might lose Harry - Minerva, Minerva, you were my student! I held Harry in my arms as a baby newly orphaned!"

The grip on her shoulders had tightened. She had never seen him so profoundly agitated, nor ever so insecure… The serenity she associated with him was shaken, his expression twisted.

"Albus…"

He let go. "Forgive me," he repeated, and turned away.

"I do not," the Headmistress heard herself say. "I believe the saying is to 'forgive and forget,' and I got the impression that the flowers meant you did not wish for me to forget anything."

"Perhaps, however, _you _wish to, my dear. It is understandable. The War-"

"Is the least of my memories to do with you."

He stiffened. "And what is the greatest?"

Minerva smiled vacantly. In truth, two memories flew to her, but one would always be unspoken. To tell a great man that he was great was a pointless exercise; the past was a thing which she hugged to herself, strengthened by hindsight. Words of over sixty years before sounded in her head, words she had penned herself as a seventeen year-old:

_I believe that there are times when history is seen most clearly, not as an abstract idea, but a revolution occurring right before the eyes, a revolution that will become intangible to future generations - a tragedy or a glory distantly impressive which will not have the same meaning to our generation. I must believe it, because tonight I can barely write out of both hope and despair, for Professor Dumbledore has gone to Germany, and he might not be seen again. _

Of course, he had returned, and although that absence had been fruitless, the speech of his departure had been utterly true; he had thrown down Grindelwald. But that was an intangible event. What she recalled was his departure, the first time he had gone into the breathless night without her - his determination, his courage, the way he was unshakeable in spite of Dippet's pleadings, his words on his enemy-

"_Our roads have long been converging on the same spot, my friend. We will trace each other's steps until the end, and that is all I can promise. He has marked me for his own, and I have marked him in turn; such is enmity. If anything, his hate will be his downfall." _

She doubted her ability to express the majesty of her perceptions, and she knew he would be the image of baffled modesty if she tried. No, the other memory would be more appropriate; more mundane, but precious in its simplicity.

"I would have to say one of my Animagus lessons with you. It was some time before Christmas, and I had just managed a full transformation. Do you remember, we got completely side-tracked and began talking about Shakespeare…"

Albus frowned in vague remembrance. "Yes, that does ring a bell…"

"You had lent me some of his sonnets; you had quoted one the lesson before and I had asked about it… I was a child then."

The revelation came to her with a shocking abruptness, for the man before her had looked the same as he did now, but the girl he had taught was gone. Yes, she had been a child, barely out over the stage of wearing bows in her hair, and now the life and energy of those years were dissipating. An inward sigh at that; she remembered Rolanda and Poppy being stunned at the idea of her expressing such sentiments, and she was herself astonished. Albus had been over one hundred and fifty when he had died, and he had retained the vitality of youth. Was it her attitude that was at fault? Or was it more of a question of the toll of misery? She realised that he was looking at her sympathetically, as though he understood.

"Minerva, age comes to us all. I look back upon those years with the same nostalgia."

"Of course, but one cannot deny the depression that fact can cause."

"No, but we can look back upon those years as a wonderful joy, not one to be experienced again, and so all the more uplifting for it. Well, I speak generally. Why the rules should fail to apply to me, I am as at a loss as you are."

"Albus Dumbledore, at a loss!"

"Indeed!"

He smiled, but she could not push away the sadness, could not ignore the fact that he was restored and she was a husk. She fingered a strand of silver. "Now 'sable curls all silver'd o'er with white…'"

"Ah but 'the brightness of her cheek would shame those stars.'"

"'Nothing 'gainst Time's scythe can make defence."

"'Love is not love which alters when it alteration finds…'"

His voice trailed off. Then silence, an unbreakable silence, with the air ringing as though a bell had just been struck. Her breath ceased, and indeed the whole world ceased - the globe ceased turning, the students to move, the sun its descent. Clarity and confusion were as one; the atmosphere was a lake disturbed, but the cause of its ripples was swimming up towards them, about to rear a glowing face above the surface of it all. She became conscious that reality was just that, a surface, beneath which the true tides of life approached, tides comprised of emotions which could not be restricted to syllables or idioms. Someone had just shouted, screamed at the top of their lungs, and at last the echoes had reached the open air.

His face knew that he had been the one to scream - it was whitening to the colour of his old beard. All certainty had shattered; the twinkle was gone, the eyes hiding behind their spectacles. A kind of subjective horror seemed to still his features, yet the tempest of it rocked her, forced her back into her seat as effectively as though she had been shoved.

Love _is not love which alters when it alteration finds…_

They were talking about her looks, not love. Or were they one and the same to him? Or did he divorce them so utterly that his affection grew thereat? Was-

She knew she had to leave, had to throw herself off a non-existent Astronomy Tower, for this was the summit, the peak of possibility, when joy was an attainable thing, and the fall would destroy her, for when he retracted, when he reiterated, when he redefined, when reality was reasserted-

His mouth worked and she rose in terror, but the mien was of capitulation to the inexorable-

"'…But bears it out even to the edge of doom,'" he said softly.

-Silence, and the quivering polarity of ecstasy and disaster-

-His long fingers reached up to cover his eyes.

"I have violated-"

-No, _exalted-_

"-So asinine-"

-Never-

"-I cannot repress-"

_-The edge of doom-_

"-Merlin, forgive me, for I both defy and deify you…" He lowered his hands and met her unsteady gaze with boy's eyes. "Minerva, I-"

Suddenly, his aspect changed. The boy of the eyes seemed to spread outwards, and his features became like molten wax. Lines smoothed and the beard vanished. All at once, a youngster was standing across the room from her, swathed in robes both too big and too grand, and enlarged spectacles sliding down his nose.

Minerva gave an involuntary cry. Coherence, already severely challenged, was utterly gone. A new awkwardness permeated the room; their glances avoided the other, for the change had created a sense of perversion and impropriety which forbade either reaction or recognition-

"Minerva…" The boyish voice faltered.

She could only attempt to inject her feelings into her expression; a sickness settled in her stomach at the idea of meeting the young voice with her own old one. An impenetrable wall had been thrown up between them - for the shallow reason of appearance! Could they not discuss..? No, her office literally hung around her neck, pulling her down, in spite of her love and anticipation straining her almost across the room, for Albus was gone and Brian stood in his place-

"I'm sorry."

He was turning away, and withdrawing the invisibility cloak from his over-sized robes. Another fruitless departure, and she could not bear it; she struggled against the guilt-

"Don't be."

He gazed at her, and then disappeared under the cloak. The tapestry flapped, and she was alone. She cried, but her face did not crumple.

* * *

The rapture of agony was over, and he had now subsided into listlessness. 

Rolanda eyed Aberforth warily, sipping her tea without enjoyment. The old wizard was thin and drawn, with only the occasional flicker of his eyes betraying any sign of life. Upon waking from his recovery sleep, he had reached mindlessly for the bottle, and proved so intractable on the subject of abstinence that Rolanda had given up. For one thing, who was she to be giving lectures on abstinence?

Not that he had ever pointed that out. The flying instructor found herself wishing that he would, just so that there was some sign that the cantankerous old bugger was still functioning. No, not one word. Poppy's passionate speech about the promise of life as opposed to death had elicited only a grunt, and only subsequent glares at the Healer had indicated that Poppy's company was undesirable. Even the unwelcome and unexpected appearance of Moody - who simply would not accept that Poppy and Rolanda had the situation under control - had aroused nothing more than a derisive mutter.

"He's going under," Poppy had commented only the other day.

"What does that mean?" she'd asked.

"Unless he stops drinking, starts eating and getting some fresh air, and regains at least some optimism, then this is how he will kill himself. He'd not be the first to simply pine away."

A surge of irrational anger had flooded her. Poppy was so matter-of-fact, so calm-

"You sound like he's a hopeless case!"

Then her friend's eyes had started with tears, proving her all wrong.

"Of course not! I would never think that of anyone! I simply think that it is something which he must pull through himself. There's little either of us can do for him."

Nevertheless, here she was again for the fifth time in as many days, sat awkwardly on his sofa, watching him drink. The squalid room was somewhat cleaner and less cluttered, but there were always new bottles to be taken away. She had even burst into tears once, and he had simply stared at her as if bewildered. Fury at Poppy was all very well, but she personally felt quite certain that one day her visit would be greeted by a body instead of a man, a corpse that would probably still be clutching another wretched bottle.

"The weather's pretty awful, isn't it?"

Anything to draw a response from him. Right now, he was slumped against the arm, bleary-eyed and hugging the absinthe as though it was a child.

"I think the next Quidditch match will take place in a storm."

No response, of course.

"Pomona's growing a new batch of mandrakes."

Nothing.

"Do you know Horace Slughorn?"

Zilch.

"When are you going to feed your goats?"

At last, a flash of interest. He had looked up at her.

"Been feedin' the ones here. Will be feedin' the othersh today."

The longest sentence he had spoken in weeks, and the triumph she felt was completely hollow.

"What others?"

"Out in my field."

"What field?"

He gave her a narrow-eyed, almost shrewd look then. She got the sense that she had asked something dangerously personal.

"Come."

The response and the surging exit from his seat were so unexpected that at first she did not move, and he had to halt and beckon her with a hand before she managed to follow him. Floorboards creaked and they descended into the filthy stairwell. Rolanda expected him to move outside, but instead he bent and groped about the floor, before seizing a dusty bottle and shoving it at her.

"I thought you were going to show me your field," she said reproachfully.

He gave her a twisted smile. "I am. It'sh a portkey. Quick."

She reached out, hesitated, and then placed her hand beside his own on the neck of the bottle. Her pelvis jerked and all dissolved except for Aberforth, who was giving her the same oddly calculating look as he had before. She smiled tentatively, ignoring the winds whipping at her, feeling strangely pleased at such scrutiny - at least he was showing some awareness of his surroundings-

-The spiralling movement of the portkey's force suddenly became more purposeful. Rolanda braced herself in readiness, spreading her feet apart and extending one hand out for balance. Colours and shapes refocused. Her boots feet hit earthy ground. The bottle slipped from Aberforth's hands and dropped onto damp grass.

The landscape around her now was wild and violent, a blasted heath obscured by fog. A crumbling stone wall lurked to left, plagued by gnarled leafless trees which stretched dark benighted fingers into a grey sky. Thorns and nettles curled beside a brackish stream, and a mass of twisted gorse opposed the wall from the right. Crags pierced the ground as if the earth beneath had buckled with unseen contortions, sharp and savage. The indistinct shapes of goats moved upon the plain, vaporous in the mist made bloody by an invisible setting sun. The air was cold, bracing, carving her cheeks into a part of the place, which in turn was unforgiving, harsh, untameable…

A strange thrill coursed through her. There was a distant glory in the sheer desolation of it all, a dark beauty in the utter indifference with which the scenery regarded its puny visitors which could not be denied. This was Scotland at its most feral, its most impressive; a land of wolves and wraiths, raw with the extremes of life or death.

Aberforth was standing and watching her, as if waiting for her reaction. She made no attempt to restrain it.

"It's beautiful."

His eyebrows quirked.

"Well, perhaps beautiful is the wrong word… Magnificent."

He stared at her, and said nothing, but the silence seemed one of approval. The mist shimmered, and goats bleated. Far away, a church bell chimed.

**A/N: I'm afraid I have a horrifying announcement to make. This fic** **is now ON HIATUS. Now, before you panic, I will be back after December 7th. The reason is that said date is the date of my Cambridge uni interview, and I wish to prepare. I apologise profusely, and I SOLEMNLY SWEAR I WILL NOT ABANDON THIS FIC. **


	23. Pilgrimage

**A/N: Please forgive my tardiness! I was ill immediately following my interview and ended up in bed. I did attempt to write but I'm afraid the result gave the impression that I was on some sort of drug-trip; I had to completely rewrite it! I return bearing a gift, if not much of one...**

* * *

Halloween, 1855.

They had risen in time for midnight, chilled fingers slipping excitedly over the clasps of their robes - midnight was the hour, _their _hour. Only once a year, mind, and only if the professors did not notice. Sniggers had to be suppressed, giggles stifled and Severing Charms whispered as they slashed their old outer robes to rags. Had it been William Potter who had opened the window and flown out, brazenly traversing the cold, quivering air? Fitzwilliam Abercrombie had been Grand Sorcerer that year; he had had to hold on the battered hat to keep the gale from sweeping it from his head. Gryffindor led Grffindor by the hand, until they met the other Houses out in the grounds, at the edge of the Forbidden Forest. No prowling caretakers in those days, no night-stalkers to fear. The girls had separated, had gone off to the lake for the sake of propriety; shame was the only bar to that night's freedom.

The moon peeped through the darkness, setting her glowing visage past the clouds to stare down at their circle, and Abercrombie had greeted her with raised hands. The wind's howl set them into silence, and they had fixed their eyes on the Grand Sorcerer. The battered hat ceased to be ridiculous; tonight he was not another boy but the focus for their frenzy. When the intonation came-

_"Merlin! Wake up!"_

-Everyone had listened, had shivered not from the cold but from anticipation - every year they thought they could hear the Old Sleeper stirring in the bowels of the earth, listening, his voice reverberating up to them…

_"I hear him!"_

Abercrombie flung off his robes, bared his shining white body to the pale face above. A delightful contrast played over his lithe form, light accompanied by shadows which darkened between his legs. One steps, two steps - the dance that wasn't a dance, but more a way of speaking without using the tongue, a language which unrobed them all, so that an observant teacher would have spotted naked youths leaping in ecstasy in the shadow of the trees…

Had they believed it?

No, belief was too specific a word. One did not believe in a heart-beat, one could not have so fragile a thing as faith in the forces which had urged them outdoors and demanded their surrender. He could perhaps rationalise it only hesitantly, as an outpouring of youthful fervour that could find no other outlet; the breaking of a dam behind which waters swirled and boiled…

Of course, the professors had known. Even the Headmaster had known. They had known together in a powerful, unspoken pact until some years after Albus had left Hogwarts, when a careless word had fixed the school in the glare of an unsympathetic world. Scandal, horror. Whispers of 'insanity' and 'unspeakable eroticism.' The castle became a cage.

The same gale howled outside, and the same moon shone, but the dormitory was silent and still, filled with bodies at rest. His emotions were carried to another extremity, the depths rather than the heights. Eric's faint snoring and raw memories were half-hearted means of escape; in reality he was willingly transfixed by the image of himself confessing to Minerva, her words, her expression…

"_Minerva!"_

The glazed shock in her eyes, the way she had stumbled, putting out arms wasted to sticks in order to steady herself… Her willingness to be elderly… The least selfish part of him worried and gnawed over it, especially in the last instance. Minerva McGonagall was fiery and independent, a bulwark against everything, including time, but the Headmistress she had become was resignedly retreating into the night. She had thrust the idea at him, had demanded acknowledgement of her silvered hair and years, and the ball had been engraved into her face for half the time they had been together-

Of course, fool that he was, he had asked her about Aberforth, had been paralysed by obligation and love, had only managed to keep his love unselfish by waffling. Was she lying in bed, remembering it too? Was she comparing his professed affection to her with his urgings on behalf of his brother, spotting contradictions? Would she know him to be insincere and condemn him for it? Albus curled his hands in the pillow and turned over. Then there was the wall of time which stretched between them.

"…_When Brian is a little older himself…"_

The terror of it had worn his soul ragged; his decision to 'unmask' had not been a conscious one. The goddess now held his secret fears, if nothing else, and the thought would have been comforting, were it not unable to erase the pinnacle of the disaster-

He had told her! He had addressed her, a man to a woman-

-And had sunk again to a boy-

-Her face hovered above him, stunned, cheeks drained, soft lips parted to expel a wavering cry that continued to ring in his ears, and he held onto it as if it was a code to be deciphered…

"_Don't be."_

He let a shadow of irony pass over his consciousness. Indeed, he no longer _was; _he could no longer exist or _be _in any sense until her reply was known. Once again an essential conversation had been cut off, interrupted by external circumstances. His thoughts seemed to burn a hole through the bed-hangings and pierce Brian's schoolbag to the parchment; mentally, he managed to ready a quill before imagination failed. What had to be communicated was such that words were inadequate. Who could calmly set it all down in a letter? Who could then blithely send it, and endure the idea of it being read?

Frustration translated itself into movement. He forced Brian's body upright so suddenly that the air purpled and his head swam. He reached for his glasses and sat still, hands on his temples. After a moment, the purple faded, and he found himself walking between the lines of beds towards the window.

The moon was extraordinarily bright; he looked away from the sky and down at the grounds, oddly stark and crystalline in the glow. He let his gaze drift over to the lake and the dappled light playing across its surface, thinking to mesmerise himself out of thought - but his eye was caught, not by the light, but by a brighter silver abruptly moving into view. He watched it pass in the vague direction of Hagrid's hut before halting, as if waiting for something.

The tip of Brian's nose touched the pane. Was that the Bloody Baron? Yes, it was; now that he squinted, he could even see the brighter patches of silver that marked the ghost's bloodstains. Curiosity subdued him, and kept him still at his post for five minutes - before the dark blot of another, human figure raced across the grass. Albus saw the ghost turn and move to meet whoever it was-

He shoved his glasses up his nose and strained but distance made identification impossible; the other figure was only vaguely illuminated by the Baron. Ghost and human moved together, heads bent, as if in conversation. At one point, the human jerked backwards, as though suddenly surprised, and the Baron's hovering grew agitated. After that, the ghost began to glide back in the direction of the castle, whilst the figure set off towards the Forbidden Forest, an urgent purpose in its movement. Both the Bloody Baron and his unknown companion disappeared from view, and Albus turned away from the window.

A wave of exhaustion forced Brian's feet back to his bed. Stumbling past his trunk, he wondered at the direction of the unknown figure. Why the Forbidden Forest? He attempted to engage his mind with the problem, but the tumult of emotion the scene had released him from came back again in full force; he sank back between the sheets in a daze.

Albus's mind whirred around for a few more minutes until he willed himself to sleep, until the Bloody Baron became Minerva, shining silver as she waited for Aberforth to join her out in the grounds…

* * *

"Brian! Mate, you're going to be late!"

Eric was shaking him awake. The Weasley was a red blur; he fumbled for his glasses.

"What time is it?"

"Breakfast-time!" said Eric helpfully, drawing back in order to pull on his robes. "And today is Halloween! We've got the Feast later on! I wonder if it's true that McGonagall's arranged that Vampire Theatre everyone's been going on about-"

Albus sat up. The dormitory was empty except for himself and Eric, who was now hunting around for a brush. Sunlight was shining through the windows - with a jolt, he remembered the Bloody Baron's mysterious meeting. He would have to write to Minerva, tell her about it-

He fell back onto the pillow. Minerva! The words of the day before impacted on him all over again. He covered his face and groaned.

"Hey, are you all right?"

Albus peeped through his fingers to see Eric's concerned face. It occurred to him that poor Eric always looked concerned around Brian. With an effort, he removed his hands and feigned a smile.

"I'm fine. Just tired."

The other boy seemed unconvinced. "Are you sure? You've been very strange recently."

"Even stranger than usual?"

Eric didn't smile. Instead, he bit his lip, and sank down on the side of Brian's bed. "Yesterday…" His voice drifted off. Albus felt a small twinge of foreboding.

"Yes?"

"Yesterday - on the Quidditch pitch - when you…" The Weasley licked his lips nervously, in a way which recalled a young Arthur so exactly that Albus blinked. "I mean, if I upset you, I didn't mean-"

Albus quelled another groan. How many more emotional complications would he have to face today? Of course, this was entirely his own fault; he had allowed his love for Minerva to get in the way of artifice, had been careless in the brewing of the Aging potion. Such frequent disappearance was bound to come under scrutiny, and the episode on the Quidditch pitch had hardly helped matters. Savagely twisting his face into what was hopefully an expression of cheerful solemnity, he forced out a chuckle.

"You didn't upset me! I was just in a bit of a funny mood yesterday, that's all."

Eric's ginger brows knotted. "To the point of nearly killing yourself on a broomstick?"

"Well-"

"And where did you go? I was walking around looking for you for ages."

"Just for a walk. I just wanted to get away from it all."

"But why?" The other boy stared awkwardly at his hands. "Don't you like it here? Is it because - is it because of Mark?"

"Mark?" repeated Albus, nonplussed.

"You know. The way he's so…" Eric ran a hand through his red hair. "Look, I've told him to leave you alone. I don't think he really means to-"

"Mark doesn't bother me," said Albus quickly. "It's nothing to do with him. I don't care what he says or thinks. And I do like it here." He searched for an alternate excuse. "I just feel nervous around a lot of people. I don't mean anything by it; I just sometimes need to be alone."

His companion's face was an open book. Worry turned to relief and relief turned to a sort of amazed understanding; the ex-Headmaster could almost see the logic slotting itself in. How easy it was to force the stereotype of the coy introvert! Eric was still absorbing it whilst he got dressed, and was still nodding at the apparent revelation on the way down to breakfast.

As they approached the Great Hall, Albus could feel himself tensing and slowing in spite of himself. Minerva would not be at breakfast, but there was the expectation of the post to deal with, and the sight of her empty seat to transfix him. Eric had to half-steer him to his seat as he stared up between the crowded benches at the High Table. Hagrid was sighing and shaking his head at the sight of the Headmistress's vacant chair, and Poppy and Rolanda were huddled together, whispering.

He dug reluctantly into his bacon, and waited impatiently for the post. Eric chattered irrelevantly, too blithely relieved to notice that he was eliciting little more than nods and grunts. Luckily, a distraction was provided by the arrival of Daniel Glover through the main doors - the sight of him had Eric leaping up from the bench and the younger half of Gryffindor House noisy with greeting. Albus pretended pleased surprise, but was not required to do any welcoming. Eric sank into conversation with Daniel, and Brian was conveniently forgotten. When the moment came for the owls to stream through the windows, Albus abandoned his breakfast completely, waiting for the owl that would swoop towards him with words from Minerva…

Two letters dropped into his lap. He ripped open the first without looking at the writing on the envelope; he was disappointed to see Harry's untidy scrawl:

_Brian,_

_Just a quick note to let you know that the Ministry will be summoning you to Blaine's hearing. We finally managed to get something out of him, but the result was disappointing. It seems that he wasn't in contact with Snape directly, but merely appealing to him and hoping to win favour by killing you. The trial will be the real moment of revelation; it's a bizarre quirk of the law that Veritaserum can only be administered to an underage defendant before an official trial, and of course Blaine's charming father is exploiting every loophole there is. _

_The trial is taking place this coming Saturday. The Ministry will be sending you some forms to sign and other such fun. _

_Don't be nervous; they'll only want a testimony of what happened. _

_Love,_

_Dad_

Examining the other envelope, Albus's heart sank. The second letter bore the seal of the Ministry.

_Dear Mr Potter, _

_The Department of Magical Law Enforcement, of the Ministry of Magic, formally summons you as a witness in the trial of Mr Jonathan Blaine to take place in Wizengamot Courtroom Five on Level Ten at precisely four o'clock on Saturday 7th of November 2016. _

_We enclose the appropriate forms. These need to be signed and returned to us by the 4th of November. _

_We note that we have already received the consent of your parent/guardian(s). _

_Yours sincerely, _

_Ms Susan Bones_

He couldn't even manage a smile at the name; disappointment weighted him. Why was there no letter from Minerva? Was this her way of letting him know that she wasn't interested?

"…_I'd say the answer is pretty obvious."_

The Sorting Hat's voice came back to him, stoked a fire inside of him. The students around him became nothing more than indistinct voices, ones which advised him to throw caution to the wind. His body moved without any conscious intervention; he found himself getting up and sprinting back down the Hall, stuffing the irrelevant letters into his pocket. Eric's startled face flashed by, but the knowledge that he was undoing all the painstaking reassurances of mere minutes before could not restrain him. The need to do something bold and audacious urged him back up the stairs to the dormitories.

This was too much, he realised. The feelings he bore, the fear, the love… it was all far too much repress, to constrain for any amount of time. He needed to act, to leave Minerva in no doubt about the scale of his affections. His thoughts raced beyond his legs and up to the Gryffindor Common Room. By the time he himself followed, impatience made him snappish with the Fat Lady, and he dashed past the last stragglers in the Common Room without a glance.

Fortunately, the dormitory was empty. His trembling fingers found a quill and some parchment. Fawkes, sensing his urgency, was fluttering on the pillow, giving little chirps of agitation. He needed an answer, even if it was a negative one - he needed to have a response from her. He would force a 'no' from her, if need be…

For a few brief seconds, his doubts of the night before came back to him, but Fawkes let out a few melodious notes, and he found himself writing:

_My dearest Minerva,_

_"He loves but little who can say and count in words, how much he loves." **1**  
_

_Nevertheless, I will attempt to frame my feelings with as much coherence as the heart will allow. Know only that you are the point towards which my 'mettle' ever turns, the shrine to which my thoughts ever make their pilgrimage. To know myself is to know my love for you. I have thought of our friendship over the years as deepening into something greater - perhaps not even consciously, but as part of life itself; I thought myself lonely when in truth I had the world in you. _

_If I gave no sign before, then it was because I was too foolish to be Love's fool, and too busy to know my own business. The Earth cannot know that it loves the sun when it orbits it every moment. _

_Minerva, my goddess - try and see beyond the expression to what is expressed. As I write this, I know it to be a useless echo of what I truly feel. We fools who love can never do it justice in words. _

_If so wanted, yours forever with the deepest love possible,_

_Albus_

Before he could convince himself to do otherwise, Albus rolled up the parchment and offered it to Fawkes. Brown avian eyes stared teasingly at him; he had the odd thought, not for the first time, that the phoenix knew more about what was going on than him. The bird took the letter in his beak and vanished in a burst of fire. For a moment, Albus stood frozen, feeling fear stiffen his limbs. What had he written? What had he done? Merlin, he had already told her, and she had already refused to answer - to pester her again-!

-Though, of course, what did he expect when the hand that wrote to her was a child's? Holding up one hand, he flexed his long bony fingers and loathed their smoothness. Ageing Potion was needed, and another gruelling two weeks of anxiety and brewing. Could he bear the waiting all over again? Would Minerva give him her reply before the two weeks were up or only when they were face to face again?

Standing still, he mentally opened Brian's trunk and compiled a list of ingredients. He had enough belladonna for another batch of potion, and there was no problem in getting any more; belladonna was one ingredient free for students to take. The Apothecary had only allowed orders of bicorn horns to be in sets of five, so again there was enough - but salamander fang would have to ordered again, and so would Graphorn gizzard. List completed, he let the castle walls imprison him again. Tedium encroached; he snatched a tired hand through his auburn hair. Moving to put the parchment and quill back, he bent to the trunk. A flicker of movement caught his eye-

A tabby cat sat watching him a few feet away.

His spine seemed to turn to ice. He stayed in his absurd position, half-twisted round, attempting to control his face, the feline eyes searing him with their vast pupils. Dazed, he wondered whether it was possible that she had read the letter - to arrive so soon, to sit so still as though she had had time to observe him-

-What did she think?

His heart climbed into mouth. The cat crouched, pupils vast enough to swallow the whole castle. Her claws were kneading the carpet, paws fidgeting rhythmically in a nerve-wracking beat - did she feel the same terror that he did? Why did she not reveal herself?

"Minerva," he whispered.

She kneaded more desperately, let out a tiny, mewling noise. Obscurely, he understood. He could not be in his own form, so neither would she. He unravelled himself, in more ways than one, and took an uneasy seat on the bed. The cat's eyes followed, gaze so intense that the pain of it forced his own eyes away. He licked his lips nervously and stared at his hands. The silence of the feline nearby was an inexorable void.

"About - about the letter I wrote-"

The tabby launched herself upwards and into his lap. Surprise choked off whatever nonsense he had been planning to say. There was a twinge of pleasure, pleasure at the sensation of Minerva's weight on his legs. A feline head nuzzled into his chest, and a deep rumbling reverberated through his sternum - was that a purr or a growl? Tentatively, he brushed his hand against her whiskers, burying his fingers in her fur. All at once, he ceased to be ice; warmth filled him, and he had the absurd, wonderful thought about how beautiful it would be if he could undo his shirt and tuck the tabby against his heart. The rumbling continued, he took a quick look at her eyes-

-Paralysing emerald-

"Is this… your answer?"

The rumbling stopped, and the cat threw back her head and looked at him seriously.

"Yes?"

A mew.

He withdrew his hands as though stung, and slid his fingers up behind his glasses, blinding himself. His heart drummed, and a bubble was swelling inside him, swelling and swelling until he could almost anticipate the agony of it being broken - he realised that he was trembling-

"A yes… to what I offer?"

Claws dug into his thighs; he felt her purring and kneading-

He snatched up one paw, the claws still extended, and raked it across his chest just as the bubble began to rupture-

Minerva yowled and nuzzled; he understood - she could not give her answer yet, and realised that he would never accept it otherwise - for all his principles, words _were_ the key to belief! He looked down again - the purring, the nuzzling - surely it confirmed-? Inside, the fire roared into an inferno.

* * *

…_To know myself is to know my love for you…_

…_Yours forever with the deepest love possible…_

She brushed her cheek against the drying ink, taking the words into herself, absorbing them, loving the parchment his hands had touched… A sigh came out, a beautiful, relieved exhalation - and then she wrenched the letter away as her vision began to swim again. She could not spoil the sublime with tears! Yet she was doing so, if not the letter then the moment. Yes, she was crying, as if Minerva McGonagall was a wallflower, who shrank and trembled like an autumn leaf at every height of emotion!

She could not bring herself to care; light seemed to feel every pore, refracting and reflecting, increasing in power as it rebounded off her thoughts and memories. Her love had magnified itself, if possible, so that it became almost a spiritual thing, transcending the physical so that the castle was irrelevant; there was just a space inhabited by herself and Albus. But that was a contradiction - Hogwarts was no longer dreary, the grounds no longer depressing, autumn no longer dying…

He loved her!

Loved her when she did not deserve it, when she had not dared ask for it, when she was _old… _Quite suddenly, the future did not stretch ahead of her, featureless and bleak. There was only the present, and a past which did not have to be preserved as the two were now brilliantly melded. Even now perhaps he caressed her in his mind! Minerva McGonagall, the darling of his thoughts-

Absent-mindedly applying make-up for the first time in weeks, she replayed the first reading of the letter. Again her fingers blindly broke the seal, and again the contents hammered her skull, beating against stunned disbelief… And once more the words rode a rush of blood to her face, invisible arms hugging her close. _Love, love, love. _The word: an ineffectual heaven. The reality: beyond expression even in thought…

And he, a boy, had been a blank, shocked face with sapphires for eyes. The image would always be with her with a frightening clarity; never had she felt the barrier of form more painfully than then. Where there should have been embrace-

But no, it was no less sublime for that! She had nuzzled her head against his chest, had loved the soul within so much that any inadequacy was swept away. And the way he had dragged her claws across…

She set the make-up down and shivered slightly, rubbing the tips of her fingers together. There had been something so raw, so _sensual _in his movement… delirium in his expression… Another shiver. She repressed the urge to pull out her bun.

Trying to pull herself together, Minerva surveyed herself in the mirror. Make-up was not the only first for many weeks. She was wearing the golden phoenix Aberforth had given her - it no longer felt wrong to wear it, and indeed it had never been wrong. How could it be wrong when Aberforth had given it knowing what its symbolism meant to her? The robes she felt most like wearing were the triumphant scarlet set Eleanor Reeves had bought her, but the switch from black to red was too harsh; instead she had opted for a sober green. Watching to make sure that the robes weren't too loose around the middle, her eyes drifted upwards - were unexpectedly caught by her own eyes.

They danced and shone, almost over-bright, making the old face merely a mask to youth. Years no longer existed. Her cheeks were flushed, and the lines on her brow had eased out, relaxed into nothingness. With a start, the thought came to her that she was looking at a beautiful woman, joy and vigour written all over her face. She felt suddenly confident that she could manage without a stick; only the sternest mental Poppy made her reach for it. Tucking the letter inside her robes, like a talisman, she left the office.

_Ashes to ashes, _she thought as the gargoyle leapt to guard the entrance. The password seemed completely inappropriate now that everything seemed so wonderful, so alive. She would have to come up with something else, something more suitably uplifting-

"Headmistress!"

Filius was standing in the middle of the corridor, having apparently halted mid-journey, gaping at her. The sight was the last straw; a laugh erupted from her, lifting joyfully into the air, ringing like a bell. The miniature wizard looked pleasantly stunned.

"Are you coming to the Feast?"

"Yes, indeed I am, Filius!"

She smiled and he smiled with her; she felt as though her happiness was enough to drag the world along. He tottered excitedly beside her as they walked down the flights of stairs, nodding to himself and sneaking astonished glances at her.

"Splendid!" he squeaked, several times.

"Yes," she agreed thickly, suddenly moved to tears all over again.

"Headmistress?"

Another moment of pure laughter. Filius blinked confusedly but continued to grin.

The Great Hall fell into a baffled hush as soon as she entered; pupils closest the doors were silent before their companions noticed, and a kind of Mexican wave of sound spread over the student body. Then the whispering began, a sibilant buzzing that followed her up to the High Table. She could not care, refused to care - nothing could tarnish the auburn of the boy sitting still at the Gryffindor table-

Floating candles and pumpkins danced out of her way as she passed, their glow dazzling. The festivities matched and amplified her mood, but she still held that nothing shone more brightly than the colour auburn-

"Headmistress?"

At last, within a few feet of it, she noticed the High Table. Slughorn had spoken and was staring at her with wide and amazed eyes. Next to him, Sybil was looking scandalised, but Hagrid, next to _her_, was the picture of incredulous happiness. His bearded face beamed - but it was Poppy and Rolanda whom Minerva's gaze went to. Both the Healer and the Flying instructor were looking thunderstruck; Poppy's entire body seemed slack with shock, and Rolanda was craning forward almost out of her seat, open-mouthed. Minerva felt a twinge; she had not been particularly social over the last few weeks. She tried to smile an apology, but Rolanda's mouth fell open a few more inches.

Passing Martha Read, the Headmistress spotted a smile flash its way across her face before it was suppressed, and approached her seat with a sudden fear that the whole day had been a dream. Martha Read pleased that she was back? Rolanda Hooch speechless? Surely a fantasy. She reminded herself by looking into his eyes as she spread her arms wide-

"Let the Feast begin!"

Down she sat, between Filius and Rolanda. The latter gave a small, choking cry.

"Minerva." Poppy was sweeping an expert eye over her. "You look wonderful!"

She chuckled; Rolanda was stunned into speech.

"You - you never eat down here any more!"

"I felt it was time for a change."

"You - you're-"

"I'm so glad," said Poppy softly. "You seemed so unhappy before… but tonight…"

"Has something happened?"

Minerva blinked. Did Rolanda think that she and Aberforth had settled their issues? She fought to keep her eyes away from the Gryffindor table.

"Nothing other than a change of heart."

"You should have these changes of heart more often," said Poppy, looking serious. "I was worried sick." A thought seemed to strike her. "You aren't… putting up a pretence for my sake, are you?"

"Most certainly not!" She tried to convey her mood adequately, without giving away the reason. "I just feel… happy. Happier than I've ever felt before."

Water obscured her vision again. The weight of years of misery was dissipating wetly, she knew. There no other release for such a crescendo of ecstasy. She turned her head to hide it, pretended to peruse the decorations.

Her friends exchanged a glance. Minerva took the opportunity to sneak a look at Albus, whose fingers were fumbling his menu irreverently as his eyes met hers. Not for the first time, an invisible thread seemed to link them, drawing them together imperceptibly. Distance could not dim what she saw in his eyes. Next to him, Eric Weasley was watching him curiously; she realised that the same might be happening with the faculty, and wrenched her gaze away. Looking up, the face of Martha Read stood out at her.

She felt herself blush - but then she realised that Martha's intense, shrewd look was not directed at herself. No, that suspicious expression was aimed at the same boy whose eyes had just defied all obstacles…

The Headmistress shivered, suddenly felt uneasy. Throughout the Feast, punctuated by Hagrid's guffaws and Sybil's sniffs - and even throughout the Vampire Theatre, featuring buxom young women called Lucretia and amorous vampires - Martha's stare was fixed unblinkingly on Brian Potter.

* * *

The week began to ease its way by. Careful observers would have spotted a bundle of forget-me-nots appearing outside the Headmistress's door early every morning, and once even a forget-me-not which had seemingly been transfigured purely out of crystal, and which glowed and pulsed with a divine array of lights. However, equally studious watchers would not have spotted any mysterious letters passing between the young Brian Potter and the old Professor McGonagall; the silence hung between them like a bell, one which quivered in the agonisingly delightful expectation of being struck.

* * *

He did not want their wretched justice, their blasted show-trial that would be nothing more than a decorative convention. He hoped he would be able to show off his Dark Marks, shatter their petty snobbish calm, force in their faces all that they were denying. They would remember the name of Jonathan Blaine.

He paced his cell, penning sentences alternately, disdaining the hard wooden chair they had given him. Merlin, he felt nothing but contempt for the stupidly kind wardens who would not deny 'the poor young boy' his 'bit of paper.' Contempt also for that pathetic, warped morality their 'counsellor' tried to force on him. He didn't give a damn about Muggleborns and the subhuman Muggles themselves. He gave even less of a damn about the Unforgiveables being 'unforgivable.' That was their term, it was only unforgivable through their perceptions. Unforgiveable. Would he care if no one 'forgave' him?

The loss of his wand bothered him the most. Even if he hadn't managed to escape, a wand would have allowed for a bit of enacted revenge, perhaps on some of the mice that scurried around. Crucio, crucio. That kid would have made the same agonised squeaking. A flash of green light for that horrible old whore. Then a Severing Charm, so he could send 'presents' to members of her family, if she had one. The thought made him grin.

Yet he did not waste his time fantasising. He was ever writing letters, leading a correspondence. He had written to his hero many times:

_Lord,_

That had made him think quite a bit. To write the name 'Severus Snape' seemed disrespectful, and 'Mr Snape' was banal. He had decided to recognise him for what he was, the next Lord… Ozzy would have gone for something overly grandiose, he thought acidly. Something ridiculous, like 'Sergeant of the Neo-Dark.'

_Lord,_

_I await your command. I remain unfortunately in the hands of my captors, blasphemers and Muggle-lovers. When I have gone to Azkaban, I will break out and join you as your humble servant. _

_Your faithful follower, _

_Jonathan Blaine_

There was never any response. The letters from his father were more fruitful:

_Jonathan,_

_I am hiring the best defence lawyer I can, one who see through the mask as we do. I found him only through the help of a fellow is both most interesting and most interested in you. I have spoken of my friend Maurice before, but he recently introduced me of a man rising to great eminence in the name of the Neo-Dark, who receives instructions from our Lord Snape directly. His more… amorous friends term him 'Snape's Lieutenant.' _

_Less formally, he is the bastard of Antonin Dolohov, one of the old Death Eaters. He is extremely powerful, not least because he appears to be marshalling our kind with greater purpose than ever before. It is fortunate that I had the pleasure of meeting him. _

_He expressed great interest in your predicament, and you may expect a letter from him soon. I also enclose a copy of a book of his, charmed to look like a schoolbook if viewed by prying eyes. _

_Father_

'Snape's Lieutenant?' _Receives instructions from our Lord Snape…marshalling our kind with greater purpose than ever before… _Exciting, encouraging news!

And the book was wonderful, beautiful. Whenever he was bored, he fingered its crisp, sacred pages, read the title: _The Neo Manifesto: The Dark Revisited. _Then there were the glorious chapters themselves. _The Dark Manifesto - Analysis _was illuminating, burning with a faith which seemed to leap off the page, and _Light and the Decline of Society _echoed his feelings so perfectly that he felt as though the author had read his mind. His favourite section was entitled _The Dark Legacy_, detailing the exploits of the new generation of Dark, illustrated with photos depicting everything from grim-looking scarred men skneeling beside Tom Riddle Senior's grave to tattooed fanatical teenagers circling a cringing Muggle. Less indulgently, the most valuable section had been written by Snape himself, in the _Words of the New Lord, _setting it out, how the Dark would rise again, how Light would fail…

An owl tapped at the tiny window of his cell. He stopped pacing and opened it as far as it would go, just enough to allow the owl in. His heart leapt when he saw that the writing on the envelope was different - was this the writing of the infamous Aloysius Dolohov?

He ripped it open, read it twice. Then he laughed.

* * *

**1. Dante. What a guy. **

**A/N: Well, several of you wanted to know how my interview went. I'm afraid the answer is: I have no idea. The discussion group before the one-on-one was intense but mysterious; I came out without any feeling of how I'd done. The one-on-one started off disastrously and lasted twice as long as it should have done, but seemed to end well. I guess I'll be twiddling my thumbs until January the 2nd... for the interview results, not for this fic!**


	24. It Matters Not

**A/N: Hello folks! Thanks for the reviews! NOTE: I've been randomly dipping in and out of the previous chapters, trying to make Eric seem a little more like Brian's cousin. Nothing's changed, except for my explanation as to why Brian hadn't met Eric before - I've made Fleur a little possessive, ever whisking her children off to her French relatives rather than surrendering them to Molly. I hoping that since Bill travels a lot, it will all iron itself out. I'm still kicking myself over it, though. **

The day of the trial dawned clear and cold.

Reporters jostled for space inside the small area allotted to them in Courtroom Five, and camera-men prowled the Atrium, circling the Fountain of Victory with impatience. Inside, Quick-Quotes quills skimmed across parchment, recording the dour faces of Wizengamot judges as they assembled, weighed down with heavy purple robes, the appearance of the witnesses as they arrived. The _Quibbler_ snatched a photo of a detached-looking Martha Read as she made her way into the Courtroom, and the _Daily Prophet_ grabbed one of the defendant's father – Mr Blaine, eyebrows knotted together in fury, the tall, pale image of his son. What did he have to say?

Why, that he had full confidence that his son would be exonerated if justice had any part in the matter. His expression did not match his words.

Then the whisper got round. Was it true that Brian Potter was a witness?

Yes, it was true – and goodness, what an opportunity – there were father and son together marching through the Atrium, the Chief Auror striding impressively, studiously avoiding the Fountain of Victory. Nevertheless, one magazine managed to get an interesting, rather artistic photo of the Chief Auror's head apparently inches from, and in the same profile as the statue of his younger self on the Fountain - for which the camera-man later seized the prestigious Photo of the Year Award; the judges praising the picture as a "thrilling portrait of heroism." What did he have to say?

Why, only the disappointing 'no comment' – but of course that was right; this was the private virtue, the public humility. There was not a jot of vanity in him. A great man.

But this time all the juice was with the son. Countless quills described his hair, his modest black robes, his expression, savouring the look of blank resolution. "The Face of Justice," claimed one hysterical headline. What about him?

Why, nothing at all! Obviously too intent on his purpose to stop. Was he nervous? Apprehensive? A magazine article: "Brian Potter and the Weight of Fame." That face was still not his father's, those eyes not his mother's. Perhaps a piece on paternity – "Bedchamber of Secrets: Continuing Doubts?" He took up the box with a quiet determination.

The reporters attempted to record the weight of it all, the impressive formality. Excitement when the defendant appeared, bound in his chair! Ah, now there came a difficulty. Two alternate descriptions for two alternate verdicts. "Jonathan Blaine, sixteen, his face a passionate appeal for sympathy but his air of righteous defiance, was an admirable and stirring sight in Courtroom Five yesterday afternoon…" "Jonathan Blaine, sixteen, eyes rolling and mad, inflamed with hideous fervour, struggled as his sentence was pronounced…"

The defence lawyer was incredibly smooth! On he went, about perceptions of justice and self-defence – the Potter boy attacked first – but then the boy himself gave testimony in such a quiet voice that their hearts positively _melted! _Professor Read was uninteresting, giving evidence without elaboration. What was interesting was the way her eyes spiralled round at Brian with suspicion – conflict between teacher and student? A idea to ponder. Mr Blaine, glaring and proud. His son, drinking the Veritaserum with reluctance.

Snape! A mention of Snape! Reporters whispered and bustled. They would have to dig out those old photos again, the sinister ones of him in his black cape. Was the defendant in contact with him? Oh, he was not! Disappointing, but they could see the way the trial was going now. Blaine was flushing as he quoted his letters to the menace. What scandal!

Only three years in Azkaban – he was too young for much more. Mr Blaine was shouting, screaming, telling them they were all warped and twisted. The _Daily Prophet_ ran the story-

"Jonathan Blaine, sixteen, eyes rolling and mad, inflamed with hideous fervour, struggled as his sentence was pronounced…"

* * *

When Rolanda Hooch next visited Aberforth, she was surprised to find him outside, pottering around the garden and poking the bestial compost heap with a stick. A bottle hung from one withered hand, and looking at him, she could tell that today was one of his bad days; his eyes were even more bloodshot than usual, and his gait was extremely unsteady. His robes were thin and ragged, and looked totally inappropriate for the cold November snap. 

Her mood sank, and she realised that she'd been hoping for an improvement following the episode on the heath. What had she been expecting, she berated herself, Aberforth cheerfully shopping for early Christmas presents? She staggered over an abandoned wheelbarrow and hoisted her cloak out of the reach of the wandering goat.

"Good day."

Aberforth grunted, and flung a piece of barbed wire onto the compost heap.

"Having a clear-up?"

No response, other than a vague nod. The air stung her face; it was as if his coldness was in the air itself. She noticed a small pile of bound books and what looked like a cloak perched on the step outside the door.

"Stuff to burn?"

He said nothing, and did not look at her. He tucked the bottle under one arm, seized a spade, and attacked the compost. Rolanda leaned against the wall and watched, before it became apparent that the compost was winning.

"Need help?"

"Need you to light the fire," he said, without turning round.

She frowned. "How were you going to light it if I hadn't turned up?"

A shrug. The old wizard wheeled round, back in the direction of the pile. Taking a swig from the bottle, he lifted up the first book. For a moment, he stared at the cover, as if lost in thought. Then the faded blue eyes came up, and there was a nod.

Rolanda lifted her wand. "_Incendio!"_

The compost burst into flames with a ferocity which startled her. The heap seemed to groan in surrender as the flames licked over the muck and twisted branches. A heavy, earthy odour drifted upwards - the smell of something rotting. The scent made her step back and wrinkle her nose, but Aberforth took a convulsive step towards it, the book held aloft.

With trembling fingers, he wrenched the covers apart, and tore out a photo. Rolanda caught sight of it before the gnarled hand dropped into the centre of the inferno - the image of Minerva, garbed in gold, head leant against Aberforth's shoulder, with the Eiffel Tower in the background - and he, smiling, eyes filled with a future which did not happen-

The Flying instructor froze, again feeling like an intruder. The old wizard's face was blank and closed, but every now and then a tremor passed over it, like a ripple across a lake. Another photo was given to the fire - Minerva posing in a hotel room - and another, and another. She simultaneously wanted to stop him and to urge him on; she could not bear to see Minerva and his love for her disappearing in the flames, but at the same time she knew this was right, and that any kind of peace for him would come out of ashes-

He paused, a photo in mid-air. The ripples raced, and became waves. Unseen water boiled; his face twisted… This was one he loved, she realised. The picture showed Minerva with her hair down, lips grazing his neck-

"Keep it," she heard herself say.

He flung it into the flames with a greater fury than ever.

Then the other book came out, and more photos disappeared. An eternity seemed to pass before he was finished, before he reached for what she'd thought was a cloak-

-_Black dress robes flying as their owner raced out of the Hall-_

He was scrunching them up, about to give them to fiery maw as well-

"Don't!"

She grabbed his arm. He glared at her.

"Don't. You looked so nice in them!"

Aberforth looked at her as though she was mentally subnormal. "It mattersh not."

"But-"

His eyes flashed. "Unhand me, woman! It'sh none of your business what I do with my thingsh!"

She withdrew, instantly. He was right, after all. It _was _none of her business. She stumbled over a hidden brick, and took a few, tottering steps back. Looking up, she was astonished to see Aberforth standing rigid, robes clutched to his chest, as if release from her grip had had the contradictory effect of rooting him to the spot. He stared at her, eyes wide.

"I musht, you undershtand? I won't - I won't be wearing theshe again."

"How do you know that?" she protested. "You never know. You might meet someone else."

"Oh?" he said, sarcastically. "There'sh a demand for drunken old gitsh, ish there?"

"You're only drunken because you keep drinking, you're only as old as you think you are, and you're not a git."

"You don't really believe that," he snapped. "What you're doing - it'sh all _charity."_

A lump came into her throat. "It's not. And I believe every word I say, thank you very much."

His lip curled. At that execrable sight, the weight in her chest suddenly burst, and she found herself striding forwards, furious, right up to him, so that her nose was level with his grizzled beard. She glared upwards, straight into the bloodshot eyes.

"Now you listen to me, Aberforth! My name is Rolanda Hooch! If I say you're not a git, then you aren't, and if I say that it's possible for you to meet someone else, then it is! Don't you dare sneer at me like that! You are completely, and utterly _wrong!"_

"Oh?"

"Yes," she whispered. Closeness to tears made her impulsive. She rose onto tip-toes, and pecked him on the cheek.

Aberforth dropped the robes. They fell onto the autumn leaves with a crisp rustle which the roar of the fire could not quite conceal. A few seconds later, the bottle fell beside them, and there was a steady _glug_ as amber liquid spurted out onto the frozen earth. Above them, Aberforth gazed at her, apparently stunned into silence, the blood draining from his face. One hand rose to his cheek, and touched the spot…

She shot him one final glare, and turned away, towards the gate.

* * *

Today was the day of joy or despair. 

He had made enough Ageing Potion for at least five doses this time – even if today was a complete disaster, being old again could come in use. Five cauldrons simmered in the cubicles, and he moved between them alternately, checking consistency and colour. Myrtle was sulking by the mirror, picking ghostly spots.

"You're going to disappear again."

She flung the accusation bitterly, eyes large and hurt. He nodded distractedly and she pouted.

"You're using me."

"Myrtle, I don't ask anything of you other than not to tell anyone about this."

Leaving the potions, he fiddled with the bunch of flowers lying in the basin. He had gone for some variety this time; although the centre was formed of forget-me-nots, other flowers threw out their scent and colour cheerfully, everything from violets to white chrysanthemums. He arranged the petals worriedly, wondering if it was enough.

"You're ignoring me."

Albus sighed, and stared at Brian's pale face in the mirror, trying to reassure himself. Minerva had been different ever since he had written her that letter, he reminded himself firmly. She had floated around the school with an air of gay abandon, eyes glittering and cheeks pink, not quite as gaunt as before. The sight had uplifted him; he had basked in her replenished beauty as though it was the sun. The gifts lain outside her door had all been apparently accepted, and only the other day Rolanda had been wondering aloud to Poppy about where the crystal forget-me-not sitting on Minerva's desk had come from. Logically, rejection seemed less and less likely.

"You're _still _ignoring me!"

Why, though? Brian's large eyes stared back at him. What did she see there? When his body was old, what did she see then? Before his death, he had been nothing but eccentric and secretive. Now he was being secretive on a much grander scale, deceiving everyone with his false identity. Who could find such a _frustration _appealing?

Myrtle let out a piercing wail, and Albus turned around.

"I'm sorry, Myrtle. I'm just very worried about something."

"What?" The ghost wiped away some spectral tears.

"Nothing you should know."

"Oooh!" she cried, as he began decanting some potion into a vial. "Is it a girl?"

Albus gave the bubbling potion a wry smile. Myrtle giggled.

"I'm right, aren't I! It is a girl!" Her tone turned sulky. "What's she like?"

"Beautiful."

"Is that it?"

He didn't answer until the entire amount of potion had been stored in vials. He bundled the four unneeded vials into Brian's schoolbag, and reached for the bag containing his adult robes.

"No. She is exquisite in every way."

Myrtle took him off. "Ooh, 'exquisite.' That's a big word for a young boy like you."

At that moment, Albus withdrew the robes from the bag. They were a rich midnight blue, so dark that it was almost black, embroidered with silver signs and sigils. His fingers traced the zodiac, an alchemical circle, the constellation of Sagittarius. The robes were so longer that, holding them up, they ran past Brian's feet for at least a foot onto the floor. Myrtle rose a pair of transparent eyebrows.

"Goodness, they're a bit big and grand for you!"

"I like big and grand," he muttered. "Myrtle, could you possibly-"

Her face crumpled. "You want me to go away!"

"I'm getting undressed!"

She flushed silver and reluctantly swooped away through the wall. He waited for as long as his nerves would allow, and then ripped off Brian's robes, slipping into the adult ones, taking care not to tangle the medallion at his chest. Brian looked so ridiculous in the oversized robes that Albus stared at his reflection is disbelief. How could Minerva ever like..?

He started gulping back the potion. This time he had enough to return him to true old age, but he deliberately stopped short, not wanting to risk the worst of his lines when he could gain a look which was unmistakeably mature but in no way dilapidated. Feeling the pleasant weight of his hair and beard on his shoulders, he tapped himself with his wand.

Instantly the Disillusionment Charm rendered him a human chameleon. Before he had used the invisibility cloak for the sake of a little drama in his appearance, but Minerva's shock had been so great that he thought better of repeating it. A Disillusionment Charm was a little more subtle in its removal, and the last thing he wanted was to endanger the Headmistress's regained health. Shoving Brian's bag into a cubicle, he cautiously opened the door.

Flights of stairs soon passed away. He tried to prepare words in his head, expressions of romance, but everything he thought seemed hopelessly inadequate. The same old sickening curdling in his stomach had him pausing for breath at intervals; he was strangely conscious of how quick his breath was coming, the weight of the medallion around his neck. _Steady, old boy._

Though he was not old. By Merlin, he had no sense of time any more.

Only one note had come from Minerva in the previous two weeks – one containing the password to her office. He halted outside the gargoyle and spoke it, having no need to refer to the note; it was so immediately memorable-

"Love not lost."

The gargoyle sprang aside, and he allowed himself no pause, but was rushing up the stairs, removing the Charm as he went-

-The door opened, and she was there, the goddess, also dressed in blue, but a pale, sky-coloured blue…

"Albus."

His name stopped him on the threshold. His mouth went completely dry. Minerva was blushing, beautifully, and those glowing eyes fixed him, shyly but with a power, the power of fire burning softly beneath a well of water…

"Minerva."

He thrust the flowers at her, half-mechanically. Her eyes darted down, and a smile graced her lips. Dumbly, he watched her take them and bring the flowers to her nose, drinking the smell in. The spell of her presence held him so still that, for a few alarming moments, balance was seriously endangered; he was the one rigid element in a sensuous, curving world…

"Come in."

They stepped in together, Minerva walking straight to the desk and setting the flowers down. Albus tried to wrench his eyes away so as to check that the portraits were not present, but failed and resorted to listening for the sound of fake snoring. There was nothing but silence as she turned around, back to him, nothing but silence between them, but everywhere the suspense of an unanswered question crackled…

She walked towards him, looks arch and determined. He explored her face mentally. He thought he glimpsed a flash of fear in her eyes as she continued towards him, inches disappearing until her presence overrode his own-

She stopped, and so did his soul. Her hand came up, brushed his cheek. Convulsively, he grabbed it, held it, would never let go-

"No, not in here," she whispered. She closed her hand around his, and led him through the tapestry into her private chambers. They didn't manage to reach the living room proper; Minerva spun around again, and dragged her fingers through his hair-

-And he leaned forward and kissed her as though it was the most natural thing in the world.

* * *

Minerva felt him tremble as soon as their lips parted, saw his eyes moisten. A feeling of utter peace enveloped her; this tumult was blissful, even as her body trembled with his. Her hand cupped his cheek, caressed it slowly, for the moment was to be savoured, and she adored the way he leant against her hand and closed his eyes slightly, as though he were a cat. 

They gazed at one another, silent with profundity. His eyes were a little boy's again, even as the love of a man radiated off him. His expression was intense, different, the brows down in a passion - there was none of the wise distance, the philosophical calm. She coiled her fingers in his beard. When she spoke, the words were redundant:

"I love you."

He seized her hand and kissed its back with uncharacteristic violence. Their second kiss was not as innocent or tentative as the first; she was left gasping. She directed him speechlessly into the living room, where he flung himself into an armchair and looked at her, and the look had her gravitating into his arms. She lit the fire and whispered _nox _to all the other lights - in the dimness, he would be hers, her secret. When all else was indistinct, who could say that they were not merging into one?

For a few seconds, she immersed herself in his presence, feeling his body beneath and around her. Here was the summit of both fantasy and safety - for what could be better, or safer, than being in Albus Dumbledore's arms? Looking up, she could see the firelight dancing off the auburn, setting a halo of motes of light around his glowing face, giving him the image of a graven god rather than a human. The blue eyes held, if not stars, then supernovas. Lightly, she traced his profile with one finger, lingering over the mouth and the proud, crooked nose.

"How long?" she whispered.

"Forever," he said, abruptly, looking at her with a kind of aching rapture. "Or forever in forever's throw, but I did not know it for many years."

There was no need for her to say anything, so she said nothing. She noticed that his voice had become dry

"I - I used to talk to Harry about love - about the room at the Ministry, containing a force more wonderful and more terrible than death. I have been in that room so long now that it is hard to know when I passed through the door, and I doubt that I was aware of doing so when it happened. I confess… I despise myself for not realising-"

Her throat tightened. "Neither did I."

The lost years still stung. A small picture of herself came to her - the image of herself, dressed in a dead man's dressing gown, dashing through the darkness… After all the pain, that man was here, in front of her, his arms around her. Yet he could never know the gap between, or share in the old despair. He could never realise the dread moment when his death had gone from concept to reality. The hurt returned more powerfully; now that he was in her reach, the idea of losing him…

"Albus - when Harry told me you were dead, that… that _he _had killed you… I realised _then." _A pause, a struggle to convey. "I - I did many stupid, silly things… Shameful things."

His face suddenly calm and strong, he slid one finger behind her glasses and brushed away an escaping tear. Her voice wobbled.

"If you _knew…"_

"Tell me."

She felt the empathy leap from him, and tried to catch it.

"The funeral… And then… After we'd won, at the party - you weren't there - and afterwards, straight after you died, Harry was trying - he came to me…"

She paused, and tried to gather her thoughts. The memories transported her back, threatening to snatch her away from him.

"I could do nothing. I had nothing to say to him. I asked him again about what was going on, and he said he couldn't tell me. And then we both just sat there, and I said nothing, and he just looked around the office like a little lost boy… After the victory party, I know he went walking up to your tomb on his own…"

His face twitched, but he brushed her cheek and began to undo her bun. She laid her head back, allowing herself to be soothed.

"My dear… I believe we were talking about you, not Harry."

Minerva sighed. "I don't know where to start."

"Start at my death. You… grieved?"

She looked up in disbelief. The blue stared back innocently.

"Albus Dumbledore! Of course I grieved! I had lost the man I loved, _obviously _I grieved! I was a living wreck for months, if not years! Poppy ended up referring me to a counsellor! How dare you sit here and doubt that I grieved!"

He said nothing but drew her into a hug. When he pulled back, his eyes were watery. "I had no intention of suggesting-"

"I know."

There was a silence, in which warmth wafted from the fire, and nothing moved except the flames. Minerva watched his face, watched the muscles beginning to tense.

"To know the depth of what you felt… to know that makes me even more relieved to know that you did not stop yourself from living, so to speak. Had I been truly dead, I would have wished you every happiness-"

He was looking strangely disturbed, as though two opposing forces divided his mind. Realisation came to her.

"This is about Aberforth, isn't it?"

No response. She twisted round in his lap, cupped his face desperately.

"Albus," she said slowly and clearly. "I did not love him. I believed that I did - and if I am honest, there _was_ some affection there… But it was affection for the bits of him that were _you."_

The bespectacled eyes looked startled. "Minerva-"

"I did not mean for it to go as far as it did. But I was a foolish old woman, who, as I have already said, responds rather badly to flattery."

"My darling-"

"I never meant-"

"Minerva!" He set one hand under her chin and forced her head upwards. The sapphires bored into her, spreading their serenity through her until she went limp. He said nothing, but she felt instantly reassured and calmed. There was another pleasant pause, perhaps lasting an hour - a golden hour in which union was not verbal... The beauty of it escalated until it had to be broken.

"Minerva?"

"Yes?"

"The photo album-"

"-Was a present from Aberforth."

He looked so flabbergasted at that that she repressed a laugh.

"Yes… I was rather surprised by it as well."

"I did think that the writing seemed familiar at the time, but…" His voice drifted off.

"I look at it every day," she said softly.

She felt him stiffen slightly beneath her, and felt his hands brush through her hair. His fingers touched at her lips, inflaming them…

"Why?"

She kissed one finger. "Because I want you all to myself."

His breathing came more rapidly; he was pressing her against his chest and still tracing her lips with his fingers. "Alas… I never took you as… greedy-"

"Women are very possessive."

"Men are their possessions," he whispered. A sudden movement, both violent and gentle, reversed their positions; he straddled her, and she was beneath. There was breathless moment in which he froze, for once transparent in his thoughts: had he taken a liberty? She eased away the worry lines with her fingers, and his eyes traced and scanned her, savoured her. The gold medallion fell forward and touched her nose.

"Do you wear that all the time?"

"Yes."

She thought of asking why, but then realised that she already knew: he wore it because the Order gave it to him, because it was his burden to bear. Underneath all the humour and dottiness, there would always be a core of gravity. The thought sobered her slightly; he seemed to her the embodiment of fractured innocence.

"What are you thinking?" he asked, pressing his face against hers so that her whole vision was filled with one bespectacled blue eye. The twinkle contradicted her.

"Nothing of any importance."

"Ah, but that would depend on one's point of view. And it is my belief that your thoughts are _extremely_ important."

"I was thinking about you."

He put a hand to his heart in mock-hurt, but she saw the twinkle dim. "And I am unimportant?"

"No. Only my perceptions of you are. I was thinking that externally you seem very light-hearted, but I get the impression that you are actually very serious."

He brushed his mouth against hers. "My dear, I would like to say that you have discovered my secret, but I'm afraid I'm unaware as to what my secret is."

"There should be a book. _The Mystery of Albus Dumbledore."_

"Alas, more mysterious than ever. You kiss a corpse, Minerva."

"Necrophilia."

"Mm."

There were a few more delirious minutes in which there was nothing but sensation and love. She knew, without having to think about it, that it would not be like this the next time they met. This was all too fast, too furious. The next time he came, he would spin it out - be deliberately courteous, slower in intimacy. There would be less of a _need; _right now they were locked together in a tenderness sharpened by years of grief and separation.

"So much time…" he whispered, echoing her thoughts.

"Lost."

Long fingers picked out tendrils of silver hair, as though noticing them for the first time. "Too young…"

"Too old."

"It matters not."

She pushed him to one side of the armchair, and settled herself on his lap. Minerva's defiance rose to meet his; she felt abruptly contemptuous of it all - the difficulties, the seriousness, the time lost. Determined to be playful, she plucked his glasses off and replaced them with her own. He blinked owlishly at her. Squinting through Albus's half-moons, she laughed.

"They don't suit you. You look very severe and solemn - like some dour old Ravenclaw."

He wagged a finger. "Most impolitic, Headmistress. I might say that you look a bit like Madam Pince in mine."

"Oh? And do you find little old Irma attractive?"

"Goodness, yes," he teased, switching the glasses back. "Why else would one bother going to the library?"

"Oh indeed! Well I shall go skipping off to Horace, then."

"Minerva McGonagall skipping anywhere would be a divine sight."

She closed her eyes and quelled the banter with a kiss. She noted that his lips were unexpectedly soft - yet forceful, undeniable. Could she ever deny them? She leant, and felt that splendid sexual contrast between them - soft and firm, feminine and masculine. Yin and Yang. Was she the night to his day? Hair which had once been jet black curled together with the auburn. She remembered the unstable core - his purple leaping towards her blue, tendrils of desire…

Time?

"_It matters not."_

No, it did not; it was irrelevant-

Soft lips, seeming to be growing softer by the second - and the weight beneath her seemed diminished - panic; he was leaving her-

-He wrenched his face away; she opened her eyes in disappointment-

Brian Potter.

His smooth, hairless face still bore her mark, and she could see it clearly in her mind's eye: the Hogwarts Headmistress on top of and wrapped around her student like a snake-

Repulsed, she sprang off his lap. The boy hunched and huddled in his over-sized robes, mouth twisted in anger and sadness. The sapphire became flint; she could feel his bitter fury expanding to fill the room. Breathless, she tried to reassure herself by trying to find the man in him - spotting the features that made him Albus and not Brian…

"Sorry."

The youthful voice quivered. The anger was gone; he now looked depressed.

"It was going to wear off eventually."

"That was not three hours."

Minerva stared blankly at the clock over the mantelpiece. "It was."

"I did not feel it."

"I'm afraid it was because we were hopeless romantics and spent a great deal of time staring into each others' eyes."

That elicited a grin from him. Then the silence came again, but this time it was an agonising silence inhabited by an old woman and a boy… Doubt seized her. Could they only love within the confines of a potion? How old was Albus, in real terms? Seeing a boy with lips swollen from her attentions was highly unsettling. She spoke, in spite of herself-

"We cannot do this."

His young blue eyes pierced her.

"We have always been taught to value the inner over the outer. Why should this not apply to us?"

"It's different. I am old and you are young."

"No," he said gently. "I am old inside, and it is that which we judge."

"It would be perverse of me-"

"Most certainly not. I assume you love me and not this body."

"Of course, but to express my love I could not ignore your body." She stopped, tried to get her thoughts in order. "Albus, I cannot love across an abyss any longer. Death was bad enough, but the comparative nearness of physical distance would be torturous."

"My dearest! I suggest nothing of the sort, though I would hasten to add that we would have had the same problem on the other side of my grave."

"Why?"

"The situation was reversed. I was old, and you-"

"Ridiculous! It is completely different; the gap was far less."

He sighed and looked weary. "Minerva, I do not deceive myself. I know that love's aspect is both spiritual and physical; your feelings-"

"If you were an Inferius I would love you."

He blinked, and his eyes twinkled.

"Then what precisely are we arguing about?"

She threw up her hands. "Merlin knows!"

He stood up, the sapphire burning in his face in a way which contradicted his apparent youth. The sight eased her; no ordinary twelve year-old could have such intense emotions, surely?

"When shall we next meet?"

* * *

Brian returned the Gryffindor Common Room late, robes slightly rumpled. To Eric's eyes he looked feverish, his eyes too bright and his usually pale face flushed. He collapsed into an armchair without saying a word, and stared into the fire with an air of great distance. His expression was dazed. 

"You all right?"

The other boy looked at him without seeing him, and smiled vaguely. "Yes."

"Really?"

The blue eyes regained some focus. "Professor McGonagall's given me detention."

Eric raised his eyebrows. "Seriously?"

"Yes. She heard me swearing at Mrs Norris."

"When have you got it?"

Brian grinned and looked bizarrely ecstatic.

"Next Saturday. And the Saturday after that, and the Saturday after that…"

* * *

**A/N: Do you not think that the scene with Aberforth and Rolanda really needed snow? **


	25. The Crystal Cave

**A/N: I'm so sorry for the delay! I've never had a harder chapter to write. I meant to have this done in time for Christmas, but hated what I'd done so much that I rewrote. It is somewhat startling to realise, three quarters of the way through a romance-angst story, that one cannot write romance. I had a very strange idea and ran with it (on which any thoughts would be appreciated), but the whole chapter really took a direction which surprised me. Apologies in advance!  
**

The fog descended on Thursday, swathing the grounds from view, so that Hogwarts seemed to hang in a white vacuum. The dawn came late, and when it did, both the North Tower and the head teacher's tower were lost in a strange, thin brightness, and sounds were oddly smothered. A descendant of Fang barked, and then whined as the noise failed to penetrate the gamekeeper's hut.

Rolanda knew about the fog before she looked out and saw it; the increased chill bit to the bone and woke her early. The air was damp, and her first thought was that the broomsticks in the shed would be sodden. Another time, she would have hurried down, servicing kit in hand, but her limbs felt numbed. Mechanically, she forced herself up across the room to the window, and placed her hand against the sopping glass. The fog swirled like the contents of a Pensieve.

_Minerva. _

Smiling, laughing, talking, joking. Eyes dancing. Immune to the sleet, or the frosty atmosphere in the staff room… Slughorn and Pomona snapping at each other. Sybil predicting doom so vehemently that even Filius began to get irritated. Professor Brady talking morbidly of resigning. Poppy and her 'seasonal affective disorder.' And there was hardly a glimpse to be had of Martha Read, these days. But Minerva was cheerful, light-hearted - everything she had wanted her to be, for so long…

The bones creaked in her freezing hand, and she withdrew it from the window. She stayed there, though, Rolanda Hooch, Minerva McGonagall's best friend…

The temperature was appalling, yet Minerva did not seem to feel it. She wondered if Aberforth felt it - whether he was lying beneath a ragged blanket, still without a wand, unable to warm himself. Had he burnt the dress robes, in the end? Thinking of robes made her remember his undershirt, reddening with blood - and his white face looking back at her, despairing-

_Minerva. _

Why?

The fog was inscrutable.

She summoned a house-elf for breakfast, and got dressed hurriedly, trying not to expose herself to the cold for longer than was strictly necessary. She started towards the door, but stopped, feeling ill at the idea of breakfast in the Great Hall. Minerva would be beaming, acting as the carrier of every conversation… And Pomona would be watching her narrowly, and Slughorn would have a mask instead of a face, an artificial geniality-

Rolanda Hooch, cheerful, brimming with enthusiasm, and _Minerva McGonagall's best friend…_Perhaps there was something to be said for Poppy's 'seasonal affective disorder.'

The sound of a knock at her office door flooded her with relief.

"Come in!"

Poppy burst in like a tornado, eyes blazing, waving an open magazine in the air. A vessel throbbed in her temple and her face was blotched with anger. Rolanda opened her mouth in welcome, and closed it again. The Healer thrust the magazine at her.

"Read it."

The headline was a wanton scarlet that left everything else in the room bleached of colour. It hit her like a slap in the face.

_Scandal Scoop: Head of Heartbreak._

The photo, lurid and obscene, had her sinking into the nearest chair. A weeping Minerva shuddered and choked as Aberforth stumbled backwards, eyes large and hurt, seeming to personally accuse her. Underneath, a pink caption read: _September this year: The Headmistress breaks a heart. _Two other photos transfixed her, cruelly juxtaposed - Minerva, smiling at the Halloween Feast, (_One month later: Without a care) _and below, a red-eyed Aberforth, slumped on the ground and putting a Firewhisky to his drooping mouth (_Despairing: the jilted lover_). A lump clogged her throat. For a moment, she forgot the article, and felt the weary, haggard face being branded into her. A bolt of fury shot through her; who had dared stand and take a picture…?

Poppy's pacing was like an itch. She struggled to focus.

_Witch Weekly's Scandal Scoop: Head of Heartbreak_

_September saw apparent heartbreak for Hogwarts Headmistress, the aging Minerva McGonagall. Yet only a month later, smiles can be seen. Love not lost? _Witch Weekly _investigates… _

_Subscribers may remember the drama of this September, when Minerva McGonagall treated staff, students and outsiders alike to a spectacular ball, which ended with the public refusal of a proposal from a lover. Aberforth Dumbledore, aged 170, was humiliatingly rejected in front of the entire school, sparking criticism that the line between professional and private life was shockingly blurred. Students and faculty expressed both horror and sympathy. _

_"It was really horrible," said Third Year Emily Smith. "I felt really awful for her."_

_Yet did Professor McGonagall deserve such understanding? Over the last fortnight, there has been a marked contrast to the events of September. A source who did not wish to be named commented:_

_"She has been laughing and smiling as if it had never happened. Her lover's roses were ignominiously discarded. I know for a fact that Aberforth is still suffering, but she couldn't seem to care less."_

_Whilst observers at the school spoke movingly of the Headmistress's apparent reaction to the unsuccessful proposal, and how she failed to attend meals, questions remain. In the words of one bewildered Fifth Year:_

_"If she was going to refuse him, why make the ball so public?"_

_Another unnamed source identified War veteran Alastor Moody as being displeased over Mr Dumbledore's condition and treatment. Whilst _Witch Weekly _was unable to arrange an interview with the respected Ex-Auror, regulars to the Hog's Head were to be heard complaining that the pub has been closed since that fateful night. Rumours that Mr Dumbledore attempted suicide following his rejection have been abound, but are as yet unconfirmed. Groundskeeper Rubeus Hagrid spoke to _Witch Weekly:

"_Err well he's gone downhill. Been drinking a lot. He wouldn't see me when I called."_

_Yet can the Headmistress really be so cold-hearted as to leave her lover in despair? Eleanor Reeves, close friend and confidante of Professor McGonagall, was defensive:_

_"I would ask outsiders not to be judgemental when the matter is more complicated than it seems. Minerva is entitled to her privacy, and no one is entitled to comment on her personal life unless she asks for it. I have nothing else to say, other than that both Minerva and Aberforth were deeply in love, and that what happened was a tragedy for both parties." _

_However, Divination Professor Sybil Trelawney, descendant of the legendary Seer Cassandra, granted _Witch Weekly _an hour long interview which appears to suggest a degree of disrespect and carelessness unexpected in so public a figure as the Hogwarts Headmistress. Professor Trelawney, 'single and looking,' described Professor McGonagall's long-term abusive behaviour towards colleagues. _

_"For years, she would not deign to speak to one of us properly. She shut herself up and once she would not attend a birthday party organised for her by staff. I recall that Flying lessons were delayed one year because she would not stoop to renew the lease on the brooms. When on urgent school business, I was blatantly shunted aside in preference of her lover, whom she encouraged to insult us."_

_As for Aberforth?_

_"He was obviously sincerely in love with her - of course, I can't understand it. She has never been very attractive. She has been quite callous over the whole affair. There was never any explanation given. What's more, she has obviously set her sights on new horizons; only a month after she discarded Aberforth she has been receiving mysterious gifts of forget-me-nots."_

_Cold and rude to staff, forgetful of her students - but can Minerva McGonagall's cruelty extend to romance? _Witch Weekly _leaves the readers to decide. _

"Sybil! Sybil Trelawney!" shouted Poppy, seemingly unable to restrain herself. "'Single and looking!' By Merlin, I'm hoping this is a firing offence!"

Rolanda said nothing. Photographic blue eyes stared painfully.

"'_Sparking criticism…' _This is the first I've heard of it! '_Professor McGonagall's long-term abusive behaviour towards colleagues…' _What rubbish!"

The pictured Minerva beamed. _There was never any explanation given…_

"And you know what I heard Sybil say at breakfast? That Minerva's behaviour was 'obscene!'"

_Rolanda Hooch…_

"You've heard the rest of them as well, over the last few days! Slughorn and his grave little speeches - 'the need for modesty in one's affairs.' And Pomona and her blasted subscription! When they saw this, they all scuttled round!"

…_Minerva McGonagall's…_

"Honestly, Rolanda! You would have thought that Minerva didn't deserve to be happy at all! They all spend years and years complaining about how depressed she is, and then the moment she perks up, then goodness, isn't it 'obscene!'"

…_Best friend…_

She heard Poppy's pacing stop, heard her own silence.

"Rolanda?"

The fog had taken her over, and she felt was beginning to sense something behind it - something bitter, which needed to be hid-

"Don't tell me you agree with anything said in that article."

The Healer's voice cracked like a whip. Silence, yet it was as if something had been said. She didn't look up, even when she heard the other witch sit down suddenly.

"Minerva would _never… _Surely you don't believe Sybil over Minerva?"

"No. Of course not." Her own voice sounded curt. One finger traced Aberforth's face, and the words poured out of her, even as another fogless Rolanda clapped invisible hands over her mouth. "Forget-me-nots. I've noticed that… and it's true - so strange… how happy she suddenly seems-"

"Rolanda-"

An imaginary wizard desperately downed an absinthe. "What will Aberforth think when he reads this?"

"Minerva-"

"What do _I _think?"

She heard a sharp intake of breath. The room fizzed with anger.

"I don't know," said Poppy shortly. "I no longer know what you think. I _thought _we were both Minerva's friends, and I _thought _that as we both have more than half a brain, we would know that _nothing _the _Witch Weekly _prints-"

Rolanda's cheeks burned. She flung the magazine aside and looked into Poppy's furious face, just as the sickness inside her reached a crescendo-

"It's nothing to do with the article! I'm not blind! I see what I see! I know what I know! I see Aberforth… like he is, and realise that I don't know why! I see Minerva acting as though it's her birthday every day, and see those forget-me-nots, and think that what she told us about it all being about Albus is a lie!"

Her jaw clamped shut. The words seemed to freeze in mid-air. Poppy's wide eyes flung a memory at her, of three girls swearing a solemn vow of friendship - three girls washed away as the brown depths flooded-

"You don't believe that."

"I wish I didn't. Aberforth-"

"Has he been saying things about her?"

Another flash of anger. "No. He would never-"

"If Aberforth is suffering, it's not Minerva's fault! Who can find fault with someone else's emotions?"

She felt at a loss for words. She wanted to stand up and thrust the photo of Aberforth in Poppy's face, and say something about how no one cared about Aberforth, about how Minerva's explanation was no explanation, about how the pictures only spelt out what was undeniable; that Minerva was blooming with life whilst the old wizard dragged himself to death…

His cheek had felt rough and cold. Wild was the word - like the heath where the goats wandered. She didn't know why she'd kissed him, really. But she'd loved the heath.

Poppy was crimson with anger, and she felt the guilt bite. Poppy was everything a friend should be, blindly defensive - and in spite of Mad-Eye's views-

"I don't believe you."

She flinched. "You've got to admit-"

"No! I don't! And neither should you! Have you forgotten the last twenty years? Have you forgotten everything?"

Rolanda grit her teeth. "I just don't understand why she's suddenly different. And neither do you," she shot at Poppy. "She hasn't told you either. And those forget-me-nots - you've seen that crystal one on her desk - it really does seem as if September never happened, and someone else is now-"

She cut herself off. Poppy's face was ashen.

"I'm sure Mad-Eye agrees with me."

"Don't drag him into it!"

There was a pause. The Healer rose abruptly, and snatched up the magazine.

"Madam Hooch."

The air crystallised.

"Good day."

She wanted to shout something at Poppy's retreating back, but her throat was blocked. Madam Hooch watched, incapable of moving, as Rolanda, Minerva McGonagall's best friend, climbed out of the window and leapt, away into the fog.

* * *

After the funeral, Aberforth found him sitting on one of their old swings, cradling Fawkes in his lap, something inside him throbbing like an old wound. The drizzle was hitting his glasses, blocking out the ground with spots. He sensed Aberforth halt, and remain standing. The swing creaked, and the seat beside him gaped. Their father's blue eyes stared at him. 

He expected Aberforth to say something, but the silence stretched. The muted sound of a child laughing came between them, and stretched it further. Had his brother ever laughed like that?

"The manor," he said flatly, looking up.

The younger version of Ulfin Dumbledore glared at him. The same lank brown hair framed the same angular face. The same furious blue eyes he possessed disdained him in the same way. _You died still disappointed in me. _

"Yes."

It was as if Aberforth was answering the thought, and not what he had said. He sat up.

"It's yours. Aurors have no need of a permanent home."

The last sentence was superfluous; Dumbledore Manor had always been Aberforth's right from the start. Its heavy Victorian face was made to fit him - or was it the other way around? His brother was a Victorian, or everything a Victorian wizard should be, and_ he_ had never been a Victorian. No, he had been a round peg his parents and teachers had endlessly forced into a square hole. Indeed, they would not have thought of themselves as Victorian; the idea of them recognising a Muggle royalty was absurd. Hogwarts had been a long succession of scowling, disapproving faces, all lambasting him for doing something as miniscule as wearing a Muggle top hat. Somewhere, in the old records, even four years after Hogwarts, there would be neat handwriting recording his misdemeanours:

_Albus Dumbledore, 13; 2 hours; improper behaviour. _

_Albus Dumbledore, 15; 3 hours; pertness and disobedience._

_Albus Dumbledore, 16; 3 ½ hours; lack of seemly decorum. _

He could definitely recall that one. Even at the time, the question had to be asked:

"'_Lack of seemly decorum?' Does that even have a meaning?"_

A smile ghosted his face. Aberforth twitched; he felt his fury fly through the air.

"_You _have it."

"But it is yours."

"Will you not stand up and speak properly? Stop crouching on that swing like a child."

He had the bizarre urge to say that he _was _a child, a child who had just lost a father who had never loved him. Instead, he stood, transferring Fawkes to his shoulder. Weariness kept his head bowed. In spite of what Aberforth had said, there was no speech.

"_You _have the manor."

Submissively, he nodded, the argument drained out of him. He watched as his brother, the younger Ulfin, summoned a thestral coach and sped away. He watched without understanding; Dumbledore Manor _was _Ulfin, the proud pureblood aristocracy, and all that Aberforth had aspired to… But the lank brown hair was gone for five years, and his father was of a dying breed.

Later on, sitting in the cavernous living room, he understood the cruelty.

* * *

Walking up the drive, avoiding the ancient ruts left by the carriages, and looking at and not seeing the ruined statues, but rather their remembered images, he again felt that sense of trespass, of wrongful invasion. Aberforth had inherited the manor after his death, and the notion that he was adding insult to injury by using his brother's house as a wooing venue would not leave him alone. That, and the memories, were the greatest challenges. 

Transport, armed with Fawkes, was simple enough, and it had been a matter of ease to walk straight past the Herbology greenhouses and leave Eric confusedly looking for Brian in the Charms classrooms. The idea of Dumbledore Manor had come to him in Potions, blocking out Slughorn's babble. At the time, it had seemed a supreme stroke of inspiration, even when considering how dilapidated it was, and it had spelt an end to the sleepless nights spent struggling to think of a location. The mere fact of identity made a simple outing impossible; dead wizards did not gallivant around London any more than they strolled down to Hogsmeade. Aberforth had taken Minerva to Paris, but posthumous fame prevented any such thing. Dumbledore Manor, as ill-suited as it was to his peace of mind, being isolated and forgotten, was a splendid solution.

He reached the main doors, and eased them open. The hall was vast and cold, hung with decaying tapestries and cobwebs. A wave of a wand restored everything to its former brilliance, and he stopped, pondering as to his choice of rooms. _Not any of Father's. _Like the boy his mind inhabited, he followed the scent of his mother.

Memory guided him first to the room which had been specifically Maria's, not Ulfin's - the library, now bereft of bookcases or furniture. The chill made him draw his cloak more tightly around himself. He cast a heating spell, and then lit the candles leading from the main doors to the chosen room. After transfiguring the moth-eaten rug into a mirror, he glanced at Brian's watch.

Four o'clock, and five o'clock was the time. He dropped to his knees, held his wand like a pen, and let his mind wander.

_Minerva. _

His lips burned with the memory. Brian's bent body tingled with remembered movement. He tried to focus on the sigils and circles, but nerves made him careless. He was a child again, in a Victorian house.

Albus looked up into the mirror and blushed faintly.

However ridiculous it was, the age had not left him unmarked. Archaic traditions still held sway. In those days, one could only officially express interest if a lady deliberately dropped her handkerchief in one's path, and even then, holding hands in public was enough to raise eyebrows. Romance was a deeply hesitant, awkward affair. One had to behave with propriety. One had to conduct oneself with due modesty. One most certainly never went so far as to _straddle_ a lady in the first days of courtship.

_Straddle _was not a Victorian word. _Straddling _was something working rural folk did with horses.

Such pompous perceptions could certainly be dispensed with, but there remained the worrying idea that Minerva thought him forward, or even rude. Of course, she had not seemed to object. Frowning, he withdrew a vial from his pocket, and then eyed the reflected blush thoughtfully. Fawkes crooned the answer in the background.

"Yes, that's the problem…"

He ran a finger along the proud crest. Had he spent so long pretending the introvert that he had forgotten that he was one? Did the urge to slow down arise from the age he had grown up in, a loving desire to spin out the ecstasy, or from simple shyness?

The Headmaster of another lifetime had been desperately lonely. He had been enclosed in a tower, metaphorically as well as physically; immured in stone which melted whenever a hand dared warm it-

"_He accused me of being 'Dumbledore's man through and through.'"_

_"How very rude of him."_

_"I told him I was."_

Poor Harry! What boy expected their professor to come close to tears at such a statement? He could still remember the tousled black head bent embarrassedly towards a pair of knobbly knees.

"_I am very touched, Harry." _

He could not imagine anything clumsier, or more insincere-sounding. He had never known what to do or say whenever trust was expressed towards him. There had never been any greater enigma than Hagrid's adoring face, or Harry's steady emerald eyes, or the way Severus had prostrated-

His stomach clenched. _Severus, please. _The thought was shoved away; now was not the time to be unhappy, for what was trust next to love?

"_I love you."_

A delicious shiver swept down him. Intensity made the boy in the mirror stiffen, first with emotion, and then with doubt. The room around seemed laughable in its emptiness, and the ability to fill it with his love felt beyond reach. The blank walls and bare floorboards were inscrutable - and they were not worth Minerva - nor was the entire manor; not even the grandest house was fit-

Swallowing, he tapped the mirror and drew his wand in a circle. The mirror followed, expanding to fill the walls, so that the reflection of Brian multiplied itself. _Lost in my image. _Anticipation scorched him; he flung off his robes gleefully and drained the vial in one gulp.

* * *

_Come into the crystal cave._

_Five o'clock. _

On the reverse side of the parchment there was a small ink drawing of what looked like Merlin, asleep in a cave, with the Lady Vivien standing over him.

Minerva McGonagall set the note down and finished weaving gold thread into her hair, shaking her head at the enigma that was Albus Dumbledore. He was like a child, she thought. So secretive, and apparently wanting to turn even their first official date into a riddle! She pulled a face of mock-severity, and then let her lips curve upwards. The lightness of self she felt was such that there was no longer any need for a stick. A different woman looked out at her from the mirror, eyes half-lidded and sparkling, and lines so relaxed as to be non-existent. The sight made her chuckle; Merlin knew what the staff thought about the change! Perhaps some of them disapproved.

She had given in to the desire to wear red. Red, after all, was the colour of passion. Walking around the castle in it gave her the pleasant notion that she was giving out a visual message decipherable only by one person. Several times she had been unable to resist aiming a wink over at the Gryffindor table, and there had been one dangerous moment when Brian Potter and the Headmistress happened to be going down the same corridor in opposite directions. The delight of it all had seemingly transferred itself to Poppy, who had stunned all present in the Hospital Wing by declaring that Minerva McGonagall was in _perfect health. _

Another desire was also suddenly unsuppressed. She had walked into the Great Hall minus the usual bun, making even the effusive Slughorn speechless, and spurring Poppy to greater heights of amazement:

"_I never thought I'd see the day when I wouldn't have to tell you to let your hair down!"_

"Neither did I," she confided to the mirror.

When the phoenix appeared, she grabbed his tail, and imagined the feathers to be a beard.

* * *

The first thing she saw was a pair of vast wooden doors, stern and imposing, and completely unlike Albus. The second thing was a line of narrow, watchful windows, set into a manor, the heights of which were shrouded in darkness. The gable was heavy, old-fashioned. The evening air around her was crisp, but she caught a musty smell, as if the manor before her was of another time. Fawkes flew in front of her, lighting the way like a brazier, and she followed him in confusion. Was this Albus's house? 

Only when she reached the doors did she spot the mark spreading across them, tarred on in what looked like blood. One line sloped down to the left, and, at its end, another sloped down to the right, making up a corner, or part of a cross. Her memory twitched, but nothing came to her except nervousness. The doors fell open.

The ceiling was aglow with stars, and hung with shafts of light, white veils like spangled gossamer. The candlelit walls danced with vibrancy in one vast moving tapestry, rich with mythical figures and mottos, so real that she could scarcely tell where reality ended and the walls began. An auburn-haired Leander swam for Hero, and a green-eyed Eve offered up an apple to a bearded mouth. A phoenix cupped a pair of lovers in its wings. Words streamed over them, wreathing their painted faces; she caught "she walks in beauty, like the night" and "lovely eyes which have so wounded me." The candles leapt and flamed, and she noticed shining arrows beneath her feet, enticing her down a corridor.

The veils caressed and enveloped her as she passed through them; wispy, delicate fingers stroked her cheek and made her halt, for the touch was Albus's, as was the breath on the back of her neck-

Was he there, invisible in the curtained opulence? The arrows sped her on, to the threshold of a room crowned with flowers - plants which Pomona would have died for, emitting a heady scent that triggered the imagination; a blue-eyed Orpheus sang sorrowfully of Eurydice, and she noticed the delicate strumming of music in the distance… Her disbelieving hand brushed sopping petals. The door magnetised her; she pushed it open-

-The flowers bowed down, and wove themselves into carpet. A young man was painting, but the vision was the painting. A woman sat nearby, fingers darting over the strings of a harp, and the sound was a physical embrace. The painter looked barely old enough to be out of Hogwarts, but there was a mature familiarity in his long nose and raven hair. On second glance, the woman seemed a girl, and her face was like the man's, but her locks were russet and her eyes a piercing green - and Minerva froze, for the eyes were her eyes, but the hair was _his-_

A shadow seemed to propel her outwards, back into the corridor. Invisible lips brushed hers. The smell of sherbet lemons hung in the air, leading her onwards, as if in a dream…

The next door was an ominous black. She opened it breathlessly, filled with longing-

Herself. At one and the same time she was a few feet away, separate, a girl with a deathly pallor and her hair a sable floor over the ground, and actually lying down, eighteen again, and covered in blood… Memory and present time crashed together with frightening immediacy; she had discovered Grindelwald's secret, and the Horcrux, a cast-iron swastika, was clutched in her arms even as her life leaked away… Albus was descending towards her in horror, and the air was blackening with his despair-

"_Never again," _a voice - his voice - whispered in her ear.

The vision changed, and now she was looking at a grown, aging woman in a hospital bed, curled around her chest in pain. Albus's beard was silver now, but he was bent over her, worry lines cutting deeply-

"_Never again."_

Her recent self languished in another hospital bed. This was after the Dark attack in the Forbidden Forest, she realised. The pain, both internal and external, reached a crescendo as a boy, Brian Potter, white and thin, trembled outside on a chair-

"_NEVER AGAIN."_

She surfaced from the room as if from water, gasping. The Orpheus vision swept her up, and she ran to the sound of the shout of _Eurydice_ - but the word woven around it was _Minerva-_

"Albus!"

The horror of losing her was all around her, and she felt as if the manor was neither a manor nor a crystal cave, but a beating heart-

The third door confronted her and forced her inside. At first, nothing was visible except for a blinding light which made her screw up her eyes. Gradually, Brian appeared, standing listless and still, a grotesque forced smile on his face even as the blue eyes spilled over. An older hand materialised, resting on his shoulder. Albus - the old Albus - stood behind him, weighted with care, shadowed eyes dull. Both pairs were turned in the same direction, and all at once a bridal procession was approaching. Poppy and Rolanda emerged from the light, dressed as bridesmaids and grinning, and afterwards came herself and Aberforth, laughing, hands linked and raised to show the glinting rings-

"No," she whispered.

Albus had let go of Brian, and was twisting his fingers in mid-air, as though he was a puppeteer. Brian's limbs jerked, and he skipped merrily over to Aberforth, hand extended and ready to shake-

She needed no propulsion; she turned and fled, breath hitching in her throat. Behind her, Rolanda squealed as the bouquet was thrown-

Out in the corridor, the lips caught her again, soothing her. Invisible hands teased at her hair. The phoenix closed his wings around the lovers more firmly, and the feathers of the vision brushed her skin. The arrows nudged her on, and Fawkes was singing…

The fourth door was identical to that of her office, complete with a griffin knocker. Minerva paused, pressure building in her chest. Having no idea what to expect, she hesitated.

"Enter," Albus's voice commanded.

She burst in. The office was warm, and sunlight was shining through the tall windows. Outside, she could see the castle grounds and the lake, peaceful and undisturbed. The office was a little more disorganised than in her own day, and the forget-me-nots were absent. Albus was sitting at the desk, silver beard draped over the document he was signing. The phoenix medallion was absent from his neck, and the lines of his face were less deeply gouged. This was before the War, she realised.

He looked up. "Ah, Minerva."

Confused, she started forward, but a younger version of herself walked through her as though she was a ghost. The younger Minerva was vigorous and spry, seeming to glow with an energy that she no longer had.

"Albus, you wished to see me?"

The Headmaster surveyed her other self over interlocked fingers. "Indeed."

"If this is about the incident with young Mr Black-"

"Alas, if there had been but only one 'incident with young Mr Black.' But no, that is not why I asked to speak to you. Have a seat."

The younger Minerva sat and shifted in expectation, but Albus merely lowered his fingers and gazed at her.

"Albus?"

"I do enjoy our talks on Transfiguration. You are a most engaging opponent in an argument, my dear."

"Oh?"

"Yes. It is a shame that there are not enough hours in the day to debate with you."

The witch looked at her superior with an expression of bewilderment. The reason for her puzzlement was obvious; Albus never summoned her without a point in mind, and there had been a very slight inflection on the word 'debate' that contradicted her employer's placid expression.

"There are few things more pleasant than an intellectual conversation over good food."

"Oh?"

"Should you be free this Saturday, I would appreciate such an opportunity." The blue eyes twinkled. "That is, if you would care to join me."

The younger Minerva stiffened. "Dinner?"

The Headmaster rose, and drifted around the desk. "Yes, my dear. After all, even a fine meal is a little dull without good conversation to go with it."

Something passed over his face - only a flash, but it was enough to know it for what it was - something powerful that filled his eyes as they fixed on her lips-

His hand brushed the witch's cheek almost casually, and the watching Headmistress felt the touch on her own-

"I'll think about it," her other self said briskly, standing up. She knew by the tightening of the red lips that the other Minerva was startled and more than a little panicked. "I must return to my marking, in the meantime. Thank you very much for the invitation. I will consider it. Good day."

Albus dropped back into his chair and stared at the closing door with a distant expression. She knew, without questioning how, that she would return, and that they would have dinner. The serenity of it all allowed a brief spark of logic to permeate her; she was calm enough to appreciate the realism of the illusion. The younger Minerva McGonagall _would_ have been flustered and stunned at such attentions, and would have been alarmed, to boot. She exited the room quietly, determined to find the man at the centre of it all.

The fifth door was ebony, with a hermaphrodite inscribed in silver. White roses dazed her with scent, and the harp from the first room could be heard again, each note an endearment. There was a twinge in her chest - the harpist's fingers were playing other strings… A mouth that tasted of chocolate and sherbet lemons held hers, and then nibbled on her ear… The door crashed open-

The tomb reared before her, crystalline white and deathly. Her old grief halted her; his funeral filled her skull. The music and scent scorned her - and he was gone again, lost just as she began to express her feelings… She fell against the tomb, and it seemed larger than she remembered, and her hands reached for the lid without any conscious intervention from her brain-

The stone ground aside, and seemed to dissolve as she moved it. The sepulchre had become a bed with satin sheets, in which two naked bodies tumbled and embraced…

Blood rushed to her face, but she allowed herself to stare, savouring the intimacy. The beauty of it was primal, sweat-soaked, panting; heat emanating outwards and filling her. The tomb was a bed, and his death was living, and was life. When at last the couple collapsed into sleep, she lingered over the scene, excited. The warmth of her cheeks had become a glow, and the sleeping Albus's contented smile was mesmerising. Only when the lid of the tomb rebuilt itself did she remember the corridor, and the real Albus…

The corridor was reaching its conclusion, for there was only one door left, right at the end. She ran, and the animated beasts and figures ran with her. The veils grabbed and brushed her, but she thrust them aside, every muscle infused with fire. The door was a clear portal, like water, and she could see herself running towards herself-

Six Albus Dumbledores reclined on a scarlet couch, dressed in robes that seemed the essence of lightning. The sapphire both pierced and drew, and the whites smouldered, and everywhere, there was a whirlwind of magic, the crackling purple of the core chamber, dancing and leaping in a fantastic maelstrom. Circles and sigils sizzled beneath her feet, and his hands were pulling in the violet tendrils, as though hooking a fish. The stars above had blurred to become a kaleidoscope, brilliant enough to blind…

The sight paralysed her; for a moment reality and illusion were one and the same thing, and he was not her Albus but something else, something descended from the storm-

Magic sputtered and sparked, and the violet began to fade, leaving the transparency of a mirror. The real Albus at the centre eyed her somewhat nervously, and heat rose up in her face. Her stomach curdled with embarrassment. There was no stopping the memory of the tomb that was a bed. There was no stopping her feet, either, which recovered themselves and began to march their owner over to their destination. The man on the couch sat up, beard still fizzing, blue eyes wide with anxiety, and gestured next to him. His closeness elicited a shiver of weakness. She sat.

"Albus," she said hoarsely.

His expression was worried. "I hope I did not overdo it."

She gaped at him. "You hope you did not overdo it? I - I…" Words failed her.

"I meant to surprise you."

The Headmistress dragged her eyes away. "I've never seen anything like it."

"Minerva?"

"Yes?" Blood continued to burn; she took a few deep, calming breaths.

"Did I succeed in my aim?"

"Well that depends on what your aim was."

The crooked nose invaded her sight. He was craning round, biting his lip. Power and vulnerability sat together, waiting for her response. She laid a hand on the side of his face.

"Well? What _was _your aim, Albus Dumbledore?"

He gripped her hand. "I am no longer entirely sure."

"The sign on the front doors," she prompted. "What was it?"

"Kenaz. The rune of passion, among other things."

"Did you have to draw it in blood?"

"Yes." The blue eyes flamed, and she swallowed.

"The third room. What did you mean by that?"

"That was to show you how I feel, my dear."

"Forgive me, but I'm not seeing a connection between your emotions and an impossible wedding between your brother and me."

He kissed the tip of one finger. "Ah, but it _was _possible. I think perhaps I was a little obscure in conveying what I meant. I meant that I would have been happy if you were happy, and that love is selfless-"

Her voice came out thick. "You talk far too much philosophy. And it was horrible. You could have been a little less realistic with that illusion."

He laid back, and eased her down with him. Real teeth nibbled where magical ones had done so previously. The tension fled out of her.

"Do all the rooms have equally complicated explanations?"

"I think not. Though I do hope they resonated."

She hid her blush in his beard.

"The first room was an impossible dream. The second was my fears. The fourth was what should have been."

"That was very realistic."

There was a pause, and she dared look upwards. The spectacles had become misty.

"The fifth room was also a dream… only a different kind of dream."

The words burst out. "A _possible_ dream."

He stiffened. "That was… wrong of me."

"Why?"

Craftily, she moved the beard aside and kissed his neck. He said nothing, but a spasm passed down his body.

"So, a date with Albus Dumbledore requires knowledge of Fourth Year Ancient Runes, Muggle theology, and alchemy! Knowing your liking for symbolism, I'm surprised there are not seven rooms."

"I intended us to enter the seventh room together."

Her stomach bunched. Shocked, she looked into the evasive blue eyes, and felt the fear paralyse her. The image of the sleeping Albus returned in force, and she went limp. Of course. Of course. She had been totally wrong in thinking he would be tentative. She had not been expecting it, but Rolanda had always called her a prude - and who could expect anything of Albus? Her chest fluttered. Yes. Yes, that was the answer. The excitement balled and exploded. She leapt off the couch.

"Then let us do so."

"If you are tired-"

"No!"

His eyes twinkled. "The seventh room does not require us to move."

Baffled, she stared at him. He pulled her back onto the couch, and one hand tilted her chin upwards. There was nothing but sapphire, and a pair of spectacles.

"Do you trust me?"

She blinked. "Of course."

The pupils expanded, and drew her in.

**A/N: So what does everyone think? To me, there has been a noticeable drop in quality (such as there was) over the last few chapters. Hopefully things will get back on track soon.  
**

**What's coming up next? Well, remember the last Discovery Arc? We're starting another. **


	26. Violence

**A/N: I plead forgiveness! I had exam modules in January, and... well, it seemed more important than usual. See the bottom for the reason why!**

Space.

He guided her into it, teasing at her mind until it came loose. At first the void was filled with only with embarrassment, and quivering boldness - his own emotions, his own appalling daring. Then, with a rush, came her fear, and disjointed images. A cloaked wizard raised a wand threateningly, a Ministry official launched a Stunner, a house roof was bathed in the light of the Dark Mark above it-

Panic, fear. Confusion.

_Where where where-_

Trying to sooth her, he focussed, flashing another image up: the memory of themselves, sitting on the couch together. Even as the hesitation surrounded them, he made his thoughts warm, reassuring - but the images continued, pictures of fear and horror. Her mind thrashed, searching to explain. He was expanded, wordless, but she was like water still caught in the shape of the glass it had come out of, demanding language and answers… He translated himself back into words.

_Minerva, don't fight. It's all right. _

_Where where where-_

_Me. _

Albus felt the impact on her, as if a pebble had dropped into a pond-

_You?_

The fear halted. He embraced her, running mental hands over the lines of her mind, feeling the logic of it, the strength… Distance was hard to maintain, and her emotions were bleeding over; the desire to merge was like a physical itch.

_Leglimency? _

_Of a sort. _

He released his love, and it flashed in the void. For a moment, her structure wobbled, half-collapsed-

_Albus!_

Then he felt it - something which shot out and enveloped him, something warm and glowing, and pasted with pictures of himself, and there was a keening need… Love. He poured, without being able to stop it - himself, making the illusion in the tomb - Minerva, walking down the corridor in scarlet robes - dreams, fantasies, ideas, raw and uncut-

All at once, she caught the first burning image, and her memory of the illusion reared up. The abyss rang with embarrassment and delight - he felt his fear meet hers and rebound off and back again. A memory - her memory - was forced into him, that of himself, speaking:

_"I intended us to enter the seventh room together."_

_-Shocked, she looked into the evasive blue eyes, and felt the fear paralyse her. The image of the sleeping Albus returned in force, and she went limp. Of course. Of course. She had been totally wrong in thinking he would be tentative-_

Merlin! She had thought..?

In disbelief, he looked at the memory again; felt her little jolt of fear in horror. What had he expected? Why, he had already been unforgivably forward, and certainly not tentative in even contemplating the last illusion. Now again he had frightened her by thrusting her into something she had not asked for or expected… There were no excuses, but an explanation to be bared to her-

He wanted it, all of it. If they walked through the castle together hand in hand, they would still be separated by blood and flesh and sinew, and if they spoke, they would still not be really _knowing _the other; they would still be people rather than feelings, and if they became one, they would not truly be _one…_The world they made would be merely theoretical. Walking up the corridor, and seeing Minerva coming down it in the opposite direction - was that not painful? Embracing, they would still be separated, only trying to meld by touch, and no demonstration would ever be sufficient…

Surrender. Essence upon essence. Intimacy, the purest, deepest intimacy… That was what he desired. Did Minerva desire it as well?

Her mind fired-

_Yes! _

_Then let go. _

But he blew her away, swept away the structure and the lines, poured her into himself and vice versa. The void disappeared, filled with themselves. Albus and Minerva… Who were they? A landscape was there be explored. Her desires, his devotion. Her fear, his doubts. She found the reasons for the illusions, and prodded them, inflaming him with her own curiosity. A gallery of memories flashed by; he savoured a younger Minerva being interviewed by himself for a job, a small girl being led across a Muggle road by her mother, a mature woman helping a struggling student - and the present-day Minerva pressing her lips against his. She seemed to stand before him, unveiled in all her brilliance - this was the essence of Minerva McGonagall, quick and fiery, blazing like a phoenix, and allowing him so close… Could there be any greater bliss? Perhaps, back on the couch, he chuckled-

There was a sudden twinge of pain. Something raw and weeping passed him, a dark mass - and he saw it - a bloody weal at the core-

_-A banshee screamed in a mirror-_

Shock had him reeling away, and, for a moment, the void returned, ringing with grief, _her _grief for him-

An emotion welled up from her, cringing and miserable. Shame? Why was she ashamed? The image of a stern, dignified Professor McGonagall was thrust at him. He beat it down, half-angrily. _Never be ashamed. _The pain of it continued to burn; the weal was a well of impossible depths. She had suffered that much… for him? Yes, of course she had, and he tried to sooth it away, but it could never disappear; it was too much, too intense.

For an interminable amount of time, they clung to each other. The pictures of a bowed Minerva dressed in black haunted his mind, ghosting the image of a white tomb. Grief was like a wound, throbbing with a heart-beat. He looked at her through the years, really _looked _at her - really saw the Headmistress sitting at the Victory party, wasted to a skeleton and utterly alone-

_You silly woman - _bloodshot eyes reflected in a mirror - _what would He think of you? _

He burst out into words, shouting mentally, flooded with violence-

_HE WOULD LOVE HER!_

The connection was smashed. The void sped past and then the couch, and the rest of reality, crashed back rudely. A pair of green eyes were inches from his, wide and stunned.

Eyes which had wept for him.

Albus closed his own, and felt the water leak out.

"Don't."

He shook his head, unable to speak, winded. The image of a grief-stricken, miserable Minerva staggered through his mind. He could not understand, he never would…

"You should not have-" he began weakly.

"Loved?" Her breath fluttered on his face as she moved closer. "Don't you _dare_ say that."

There was a pause. He dared open his eyes a fraction to see a pair of arched brows twisted in anger. An imaginary Sorting Hat spoke to him-

_You were wrong. _

_Yes, _he admitted. _I have done nothing but make her miserable. _

The past aside, had she thought it too much as well? No warning had been given; she had not been prepared for him to delve into her innermost thoughts. A weight settled in his chest.

"Minerva, I'm-"

"Sorry," she snapped.

"I did not intend to make you unhappy," he said, hoarsely. "Ever."

She said nothing, and simply gazed at him, expression unreadable. What did it matter what he had _intended, _when what he had _done_ was literally sitting before him? He closed his eyes again, trying to block out the gaunt skull-face that kept on superimposing itself over the present Minerva. Bile - at himself - crawled up his throat.

"Why did you do that?"

The thickness of her voice made his eyes snap open. Her face was slack, and the emerald was flooded.

"I…"

"_Why?"_

But he had already answered the _why, _inside, in the 'seventh room;' the question was _how dare._ The answer was gone from him.

"Why would _anyone_ do that?"

"Idiocy, perhaps," he said, brutally, his own eyes watery again. "The greatest of idiocy. Minerva, forgive me - you were not ready - to invade your privacy-"

Her lips cut him off. Suddenly he was submerged in Minerva again, in a different way - her hands were raking through his hair, and there was nothing but warmth and the smell of shampoo and perfume, passionflower and jasmine-

When she drew back, he could only gape at her.

"Albus," she whispered, wiping her eyes. "I'm not crying because you invaded my privacy; I'm crying because you let me invade yours - you let me see…"

The emerald danced.

"…Something _beautiful."_

Before he could respond, she raised a finger, and frowned.

"Well… Perhaps 'beautiful' is the wrong word. _Magnificent."_

Something swelled inside him, leaving him speechless. Minerva's creamy skin was blooming as a blush crept up her throat, and some of her hair had come loose from the golden thread. Her hand sat on the couch, fingers spread self-consciously. He snatched it up, and daubed his mouth down the white arm. Her body responded and curved into him, catlike in its grace, and the phoenix shook on her breastbone; his attentions moved to her neck… Her ear invited a whisper.

"Nothing so magnificent as Professor McGonagall."

"Who, pray tell, is 'Professor McGonagall?'"

His mouth traced her jaw-line. "My other lover."

"Describe her."

"I could not do her justice."

There was a pause as he reached her mouth.

"I have a confession to make: I am seeing a Professor Dumbledore."

"Goodness! I must duel with him."

She laughed, and there was another pause. At last, he cleared his throat. "My dear, I believe it is time for dinner."

"Anything of actual nutritional value?" She leant against him again, hair tickling his chin. "I know how you love your sweets."

"Ah, now that is a tall order, but I shall endeavour to bring you any delicacy you should wish."

She said nothing, but kissed him.

* * *

_Gone to Hogsmeade for supplies. _

_Madam Hooch_

Rolanda pinned the note to the door of her office, and smiled weakly. The heaviness that had arrived with the fog had not left her, and there was nowhere to walk in the castle that would not somehow lead to Minerva.

_Minerva. _

She could almost see straight through the modest door to where the note sat crumpled on her desk, shoved to one side in hopeless denial. A neat script pasted itself before her eyes:

_Rolanda,_

_You have always been my greatest friend, and if I have offended you in any way…_

Of course she had noticed. Who could fail to notice that something was wrong, when the exuberant Madam Hooch stopped stiff as a board in the middle of a corridor, and pointedly walked in the opposite direction? For the sight of Minerva walking towards her, eyes glowing and lips turned upwards, evidently intent on a homely chat… Unbearable? Infuriating? No, painful. Painful, even when she had gotten what some perverse part of her had longed for, to see that smile wiped off-

Unconsciously, her hand clenched around her wand as she walked down to the main doors. _My greatest friend… _No, only the most despicable.

_Gone to Hogsmeade for supplies. _

Another lie. She was most certainly not going to Hogsmeade for supplies. Was she going so that she did not have to encounter Minerva? No, not that either. Her feet again possessed her, and again they would walk the route to Aberforth's, to where a lonely, damaged person continued to damage himself. Why? The thought was the only clear thing, the only thing which could accelerate her on down through the wet darkness to Hogsmeade…

As the lights of the village grew nearer, she tried to imagine the heath - and it came to her; a vague impression of tangled gorse and briars, only sharpening with the vision of an old wizard, long nose proud against a grey sky. She knew she thought of the heath because it was a place of natural significance - and of course she would remember Aberforth most clearly because she had always been a 'people person,' recalling faces over places-

-White, despairing faces-

The gate creaked as she pushed it open. Stumbling, she found the door and rapped on it, before common sense asked her what she was doing…

The wind howled, and once again she wondered if he was cold, inside an alcoholic tomb… His wand sat heavily in her pocket, weighing her down. She knocked again, more urgently, and she found herself pressing an ear against the rough wood, listening, listening for a mumbled curse and unsteady footsteps-

Had he seen the _Witch Weekly _article?

Another knock, and again there was no response-

Her hand acted before the alarm could even properly ignite her mind; her wand was out, and her mouth was opening to cast _Reducto, _blasting the battered door off its hinges-

"Aberforth!"

Her voice sounded alien, and far too desperate. She barrelled up the stairs, and into a room which was as dark and frozen as a grave-

"_Aberforth!"_

The sofa was a dim outline, and there was something huddled on it, horribly still - and a cry burst out of her even as her fingers raked it and found it to be cushions-

"I'm here!"

Suddenly, a black shape was beside her, and bony fingers were closed around her wrists, heaving her up from where her knees had given way…

"I'm here," Aberforth said again, and only then did she have the sense to light the room.

The old wizard's face was inches from her own, and he was startlingly alive, blue eyes wide and less bloodshot than usual. His expression was one of astonishment. Her own face burned, and she bowed her head, just as his breath hit her face, oddly without the scent of absinthe. His grip on her wrists did not loosen.

"What's going on here?"

The words dragged her chin upwards. Her voice came out unnaturally high.

"I - I was afraid… you didn't - I was knocking…"

She couldn't finish. Something passed over Aberforth's face.

"I was in Hogmeade, getting some supplies," he said, blankly.

Rolanda let out a giggle that sent the old wizard's eyebrows soaring into his hair, and the sight made her giggle more. Aberforth's hold on her wrists was suddenly the only thing preventing her from sinking down again, this time from laughter. Her knees buckled. Some detached part of her observed that the laughter was completely inappropriate, and that nothing sufficiently hilarious had happened to induce such amusement, but it did not matter anyway; she had never laughed so much before…

Aberforth was looking inexplicably alarmed. "Stop it!"

She tried to say that she couldn't, but instead rocked backwards, pulling him with her. Her giggles reached deeper, into her stomach, into horror. The terror of the huddled heap seemed to come to her again anew, and the laughter was gone, replaced with tears-

Aberforth opened his mouth and shut it again. He let go, so that she sank down onto the sofa, which had strangely moved to place itself behind her. Then he stood and watched her, with an expression she had never seen before, as though a wall of crag had given way-

"You're not drunk," she commented, after she had finished weeping.

"No," he agreed. Hesitantly, he sat down on the sofa beside her.

"It's cold in here."

"Yes."

"Can you manage - at night and all?"

He shrugged, awkwardly. "I get by."

"If I give you back your wand, you won't kill yourself?"

A whine had entered her voice. Aberforth gnawed his lip and the blue eyes darted from her face to the wall, to the ceiling, to the floor, and back again. Something opened up; there was a glimpse of hurt vulnerability…

"No," he whispered. "That moment is past."

She reached into her robes and held out the wand to him. She expected him to snatch it, but instead he took it gently, caressing it with his fingertips. The effect was mesmerising; his hands were both rough and delicate at the same time-

"You needn't have worried."

"But I did."

He looked up at her, from beneath his brows. "I know."

There seemed to be nothing else to say, so she remained silent. Heat was moving up into her face, the heat of embarrassment. Rolanda Hooch, hysterical! For no apparent reason! Goodness, she could remember Sybil being hysterical once, and she could even more clearly remember the sting of her hands as she delivered several ringing slaps; she had never been one to be overwrought, and now here she was… The previous minutes now seemed utterly bizarre.

With a jolt, she realised that Aberforth was still looking at her narrowly, as though expecting her to go to pieces any second. Drawing herself up, she addressed the opposite wall.

"I'm very sorry about all this. I'll repair the door on my way out. I'm sorry for bursting in here and disturbing everything. Perhaps it's the weather; Poppy's always going on about her Seasonal Affection Disorder. I'll-"

She moved to stand up, but a grip like a vice pulled her back down. Another calloused hand cupped her face and forced her to look into a pair of blazing sapphires. The blood in her face seemed to spread from his touch.

"Affection?"

Her spine prickled. "Uh, well, it might be something else; I wasn't sure, I'm not very good at listening-"

Warm breath wafted over her cheeks. "Is this why you came?"

"I-"

"Is it?"

"Er-"

His hand removed itself from her wrist, but the thought of moving was absurd. One bony finger jabbed at his chest.

"Is _this _why?"

He was inches away now, and the hard lines of his face had dissolved. The conversation was no longer about the weather, but about something else, and she felt the heat coil downwards into her ribcage, and the weight of some unknown suppression was gone - gone with the pain of a blade being sharpened against a stone-

"I'm not Minerva," she said.

She would never be Minerva, with her stately beauty and ready wit. She would never be Minerva, standing next to Aberforth as his lips grazed her neck-

"Who said anything of the sort?"

"You love her," she whispered.

"She was not mine to love." His finger caught the tear as it escaped. "You're not a woman who cries."

She opened her mouth to contradict him, and point out that the old wizard had had been treated to nothing but tears throughout all her visits, but his hand fell from her face. He was surging upwards, and walking stiffly across the room. When he next spoke, he sounded bitter.

"You're a good woman, and you deserve more than a sod. Get out."

The words lanced her. "Sorry?"

"Get out. Don't trouble yourself to come here any more. I prefer my own company."

Her fists clenched. "Liar!"

"Excuse me?"

"Liar!"

His eyes had turned to flint, but Rolanda no longer cared; fury launched her off the sofa and at him, ramming him against the wall. The hard bones of his body pressed into her as she shouted into his face - Merlin knew what about - perhaps about being immature and ridiculous, but between each word she knew she was kissing him, savagely, almost as ridiculously, so that their teeth knocked together, and his clawing hands became embraces…

Outside, the rain stopped.

* * *

The first dribble of snow came several weeks later, and the Gryffindors woke one morning to discover the Common Room hung with Christmas decorations. Tinsel drooped over picture frames, causing the portraits to alternately giggle and complain, and a Christmas tree stood in the corner, hung with replenishing chocolates. Midnight feasts began to take place in the dormitories, and a Fourth Year, Joshua Spence, snuck in both Butterbeer and Fire-Whisky, to the delight of the older years and the pleasant horror of the lower. In all the commotion of a dozen parties and excited gatherings, Brian Potter's weekly disappearances went entirely unnoticed - except perhaps by Eric, who worried over how Brian always returned from his detentions "red in the face and worn out." 

"What does she make you do in them?"

"Oh, just write lines and clean cauldrons. Things like that. Just the usual."

"And you always come back so late! I'm in bed sometimes, when you get back!"

"She loses track of time. I don't like to say anything."

He had to suppress a smile at that. The meetings - _dates, _he thought happily - were never the same, and always sublime, even though they had somewhat calmed down following the first. He had treated Minerva to a picnic and a visit to a remote Muggle restaurant. She, in turn, had invited him to a pleasant meal in her rooms, attended by floating candles. More than _doing, _they spoke, and simply experienced, enjoying the touch of the other. He was surprised at how tactile he was; he could not sit near her without brushing her hair, or stroking a cheek. Occasionally they touched more deeply, with minds rather than fingers.

Little else mattered other than the beautiful succession of Saturdays. The time between was to be spent preparing for the next…

"Mr Potter?"

Martha Read loomed over him, and he realised that it was not Saturday, but Thursday morning, and Brian was meant to have been transfiguring a hamster into a box.

"Sorry, Professor."

Brian's wand flicked, and the escaping hamster expanded into a jewelled chest. Perfect. Inwardly sighing, he let his mouth hang open, as if shocked at his success.

"Blimey," Eric whispered from the next table.

"Your comments were not invited, Mr Weasley," snapped Martha, a slight drawl in her voice. "And Mr Potter, you would do better not to look so gormless."

Albus shut his mouth, and frowned. Eric sank down in his seat, shaggy red hair flopping into his eyes. This term's Transfiguration had undoubtedly been different; the weakly sniping Professor Read had gone on her leave both petulant and incompetent, only to return efficient and strangely silent. Her air was verging on the brusque, and there were times when a snap crept into her voice. She rarely approached Brian's desk, but when she did, it was always with a kind of glaring suspicion.

Yet, as Minerva had said, this was the same person who had demanded extra Defence lessons for Brian out of concern for his safety. Of course, one could be concerned about a student without necessarily liking them…

_Severus. _

That same old clench.

He reversed the spell with a violent wave. Did everything come back to that? There was no point in brooding over the past when the present was so satisfying. The hamster scurried along the table-top, and began to nibble at Brian's textbook. The professor narrowed her eyes and glared at him. Staring blankly back, he reached to catch it-

-A cold, familiar touch-

-Invisible fingers-

-Gasping, he Occluded himself, shoving the intruder out-

Martha Read was ashen, and a sheen of sweat decorated her forehead. She was stepping backwards, fists clenched, brown eyes still locked on his, wide and terrified, and she seemed to shrink, rigidity collapsing into trembling…

_She knows!_

Appalled, he stared back, fingers digging into the desk. His wand clattered on to the floor, but he paid it no attention; his thoughts accelerated wildly, and bile crept up his throat - all the pretence had come to nothing, for she knew - she had reached in, and he had not been prepared-

"Professor?"

Eric's voice was an irrelevant buzzing. Martha was swaying, eyes half-lidded; he could see she was close to fainting, and no wonder - who expected to find the mind of the historic dead in the place of a boy's? Helplessly, Albus cursed himself. Martha had already proved herself to be an Occlumens, and there had been every reason to assume that she was a Leglimens as well. The secret was out-

_Obliviate!_

He surged downwards for his wand, but suddenly the professor was diving down with him, knocking his hand out of the way, face still white but eyes glittering-

"No," she said, so quietly that nobody else heard.

'No' to Obliviation? Or was it a 'no' of disbelief? The colour was rushing back into her cheeks, blotchily, in spots. The shock was deepening into something else; the lips twisted, and previously invisible lines cut into the brow. A moment passed before he identified the emotion.

Despair.

She drew up, and held his wand up for a few seconds, before slowly holding it out to him. There was a mute appeal in those brown eyes. Speechlessly, he took his wand back, and pocketed it. She turned abruptly and marched away, shoulders hunched.

"What on _earth?" _

Eric gave him a wink, and circled a finger around his temple. Disguise destroyed, Albus gaped at him. Eric's tentative grin faded.

"Are you all right? You look really ill."

"I…"

What was the point of inventing an excuse? What was the point of anything, now that someone knew? Martha would tell someone, of course she would - perhaps she would report it to the Ministry, or announce it before the school , or perhaps - his stomach turned to ice - she would write directly to Harry and Ginny? Perhaps he would be due for a distressed letter from Ginny over the next few days, with the news that Harry had suffered a collapse?

"_Peace, peace, please Merlin, peace! No more!"_

His throat clogged. How would Harry ever have peace again? How would he feel, knowing that he had been deceived for twelve years? How would anyone feel, to discover that their old Headmaster was their son? The Potters would never be left alone again, and - a selfish thought - he would be carted round as a curiosity, forever separated from Minerva in years of frantic research. The future was frighteningly clear - he could already see a headline in the _Daily Prophet - DUMBLEDORE: BACK FROM THE DEAD - _accompanied with a photo of a weeping Ginny and a subheading - _Man-Who-Lived Suffers Mental Breakdown-_

The brown eyes seemed to hang in the air. Obliviation, the one hope of containing the secret, sacrificed for _a pair of brown eyes-_

Merlin, did he never learn? Self-loathing crept through him, scalding him to the bone. Minutes before the disaster had happened, he had been thinking about Snape, and yet _still he did not learn-! _Just a look - that was all it took for his resolve to wilt-

_Old fool, _he thought, savagely. _You blind old fool. _

"Mate?"

But what would she write to his 'parents?' _Dear Mr and Mrs Potter… _His mind blanked. _No proof. _Suddenly, he was teetering at the edge of a cliff, saved by an unexpected hand. Martha had no proof at all! The situation had always been nonsensical, and time had not made it any less absurd. Who would believe it? Who would doubt it even to the extent of even _thinking _of checking with Veritaserum? Martha Read was nothing but a lone voice, raving about one ridiculous idea in a choir of hundreds. If the _Daily Prophet _picked up the story, then it would only be to pour scorn on it-

"Brian?"

Heart-beat slowing, he looked up, and pulled his face into a grin. "Hmm? Nothing's wrong; I was just thinking."

Eric was frowning at him, but his eyes were dragged to Martha, who was sat back at the teacher's desk, staring blindly at an abandoned quill. Wincing, he forced himself to look back at his 'friend,' who was looking more and more perturbed by the second.

"I'm all right. _Honestly."_

The lesson continued, uneasily. Martha remained seated and silent, and did not respond even when the bell went. The class paused and waited for homework which never came, and for a voice which never spoke. Eventually, they left, murmuring and raising their eyebrows at each other. Looking back, Albus saw a head sink into a pair of trembling hands.

* * *

David, the wizarding press soon noted, was not like Brian. 

Such a likeness! His father's face! His father's nose! His father's hair! By Merlin, there was no doubting the paternity of this one. The lurking photographers gleefully snapped up pictures for the celebrity magazines. Old photos of Lily and James were dug out. _James Reborn, _said _Witch Weekly _authoritatively. Yet, such a likeness was suspicious, was it not, in that Brian was even more obviously the black sheep? The rumour mills churned away…

For Harry, however, the most immediately important thing about David was that he was going to be Difficult.

"Difficult?" he had asked, when Ginny had voiced the view.

"Yes. According to my mother, anyway - and she should know."

David, unlike Brian, never slept the night through. David, unlike Brian, screamed until he went red in the face. David, unlike Brian, saw the point of nappies - or, rather, needed them. The more David shrieked and vomited and 'dumped,' the more Brian seemed like a child prodigy. How, Harry wondered, could two siblings be so utterly different?

Months had passed, but neither the press nor the extended family had lost interest. Molly knitted numerous jumpers that seemed to deliver themselves hourly, and Fred and George were swept from the house after offering up a bag of 'harmless' sweets. Parcels were delivered from Romania, containing stuffed toy dragons. 'Tante Gabrielle' arrived on the doorstep one morning, determined to wave Parisian mementoes over David's head and reminisce, at length, about the Triwizard Tournament until Ginny's smile became rather fixed. An ancient Weasley aunt mistakenly sent dresses and dolls. Relatives aside, Moody turned up to nod approvingly at David's black tuft of hair before departing.

When the doorbell rang, one Sunday morning, Harry expected a Weasley. The post came with one more letter than usual, Harry could not help but suspect that it was another imperious demand for updates on David's 'progress' from Fleur.

"Odd," commented Ginny, passing the envelope over the breakfast table. "No address."

"Phlegm," he muttered, ripping it open.

Newspaper-cut letters stared up at him.

_Hogwarts is in danger. Aloysius Dolohov._

Harry froze at the breakfast table, and read the newspaper-cut letters again, more slowly. The black owl which had delivered the note soared off as Ginny sat down.

"Harry?"

He passed the note over without speaking, and watched the brown eyes widen.

"Brian-"

"-Received notes like that."

He got up, and began to pace the kitchen, ignoring the weight of Ginny's gaze. _Aloysius Dolohov… _The sender or the subject? Yet of course, it made no sense to bother making the note anonymous and then add the name of the sender to it… His footsteps eased into the Auror's prowl.

"One note," said Ginny softly. "And no proof."

"Not one," he corrected.

"Brian's-"

"No. The Auror Department have received a few as well. And I know for a fact that the Minister received one the other day."

"All saying the same thing."

"Yes and no." He stopped, and put his hands in his pockets. "There was another about Hogwarts being in danger. That was sent to the Department as a whole. Shacklebolt got one saying something about old forces rising. And the Minister came rushing in panicked by one saying that a new Dark Lord was rising. He's understandably jittery."

Ginny frowned. "I haven't been a housewife for so long that I've forgotten what it was like to be an Auror. Notes like that-"

"Well, yes. You're always going to get the crackpot convinced that the end is coming, bombarding us with letters. We _still _get letters from the old lady in Somerset who says that Voldemort is living in her orchard."

He flopped down into the chair. Ginny took a sip of tea.

"So why worry?"

"Assuming that the person sending these is the same person who sent notes to Brian… well, they were right about Jonathan Blaine, weren't they?"

Her eyebrows rose just as the doorbell rang. Harry sprang up, half-relieved by the excuse to release the tension which had building ever since the note's arrival. Being Chief Auror had its advantages, in that one could never be unoccupied for long.

"A call, I expect."

Ginny nodded, and kept her eyes on him. Her thoughts were transparent: _don't do anything stupid. _

He sighed, and reached for his cloak. Half-stumbling down the hallway, he fumbled with the clasp. Shacklebolt or Tonks? Or some faceless official from the Ministry? _Neither?_

The man standing on the doorstep was lean and pale, and somewhat rough in his appearance; stubble purpled his chin, and his pointed face was traced with scars. His hair was so blond that it was almost white, and dishevelled, as if he had not brushed it in days. The travel cloak he wore was worn, and patched. The blue eyes were shockingly bright in comparison to everything else, almost lurid in their hue, and they stared at him sharply, sweeping him up and down.

Harry opened his mouth, but shut it again. There was something familiar in the way the stranger was standing, something distinctive in the shrewd gaze…

"Malfoy?"

One blond eyebrow rose. "Of course. I'm assuming you're Potter? May I come in?"

Stunned, Harry stepped aside. Malfoy entered - entered with the balanced step of a wizard trained in defence - and passed the hooks without discarding the worn travel cloak he wore.

"Pardon the rudeness; sadly I'm not here for a chat."

Yes, thought Harry. The words had been spoken in the same mocking tone, and the blond man was looking at him with same strange deference; a mixture of sarcasm and sincerity. He could not suppress a grin, and Malfoy shot a sardonic one back.

"Are you sure? I haven't seen you since the War. Or, indeed, heard anything about you."

"How disastrous. I must endeavour to be embroiled in a series of scandals."

The Chief Auror waved him into the living room, where the other wizard promptly sat and proceeded to sprawl himself in an armchair. Sitting down himself, Harry lit the fire, then studied the man before him anew, eyeing the tousled hair with a smirk.

"Are we still cultivating the debauched image?"

"Certainly. My father was always very neat in his appearance. It was always faintly sinister."

"Indeed. So, is there now a Malfoy brood? Will I ever be introduced to a miniature Draco?"

Malfoy chuckled. "Unlikely. I'm hoping this is not an offer to introduce me to your sproglet; he's been all over the papers and I'm sick of him already. No, I'm afraid I come on business." One hand produced a wad of paper, which was flung carelessly in Harry's direction. "I have been receiving some disturbing letters. I'll save the best till last, but, suffice it to say, it seems that the Dark propaganda machine is not dead."

"Oh?" The odd scrawling sprang out at him - ravings against the Light… "Have you become their poster boy?"

"Of course. I'm 'Lord Snape's Acolyte.'"

Harry winced. "That's bad."

"It's not my favourite title, no."

"What's this last and best then?"

Malfoy shrugged, and passed another letter over. "I can summarise; it's not particularly multi-layered. This is from one of my little friends, whom I asked to research Aloysius Dolohov - his name comes up a few times in the other rubbish."

"Odd. I received what seems to be an anonymous warning about him this morning."

"Ah. Well, he seems to be setting himself up as the next Dark Lord. Apart from the rather interesting history he possesses - he apparently grew up in an orphanage; funny thing about you orphans, isn't it? Apart from that, he seems to have been inciting hatred against a number of symbolic targets. I just thought you should be aware that one of them is yourself."

"Obviously."

"And that the other is your son."

* * *

Breakfast in the Great Hall was subdued, with half of the staff absent, having seemingly been unable to remove themselves from their beds. Whilst the student tables were alive with pre-Christmas gossip, the nearest companion the Headmistress had was Sybil, who was neither willing nor welcome to do much more than sniff disdainfully over her meal. Martha's empty chair gaped threateningly; to look at it made her feel strained and nervous, yet the gap where Rolanda usually sat was even more troubling - no reply to her letter had yet come. No, the only possible source of smiles or of any distraction at all was Albus, in his guise as Brian, whose ready grins in her direction were almost enough to balance it all out. 

_Rolanda._

The thought weakened her returning smile, and Brian's pale brow creased in a frown. Watching to make sure that none of the Gryffindors were watching the silent exchange, she flicked her eyes towards Rolanda's seat. Albus seemed to attempt a small gesture of sympathy, but the Weasley boy that moment turned and spoke to him. Minerva watched and sighed.

Ever since Martha's discovery, a ridiculous possessiveness had crept through her - as though Albus was about to be snatched away by a ruthless media. Absurd when, as he had said, there was no proof that Martha could produce. Nevertheless, the fact had set on her edge, and the idea of Albus having to return to the Potters for Christmas was enough to make her feel ill.

He felt the same; he had written to Harry begging to stay, with the excuse of a large Christmas party. Yet Harry, usually frightened of restricting Brian's abilities to socialise, had been resolute. Daniel's first Christmas required his elder brother. Minerva found herself wishing fervently that Daniel had never been born.

WHAM.

The Headmistress looked up in time to see the main doors of the Hall ricochet backwards off the walls they had slammed against. Martha Read was half-running down between the House tables, seemingly careless of the stares of the students. Her dark eyes were scanning the ceiling, and even from a distance it was clear that her skin was sallow, as if the colour had been drained from it.

Minerva's stomach clenched. She risked a glance at Albus, who was surveying Martha over his spectacles, looking thoughtful. Now the professor was climbing into her chair, stare still fixed upwards. One hand clipped a goblet, and the other jerked out compulsively to stop it from falling.

"Good morning, Martha," the Headmistress said loudly.

The other witch did not respond, and simply continued to stare at the ceiling, face twitching with agitation. The thought came to her observer: perhaps the discovery of Albus had unhinged her a little? She tried to return to her toast, but it was then that the post arrived - and Martha gave a jerk which sent a fork clattering to the floor.

The owls streamed in, sending a wind through the Hall and weighed down by parcels and letters. The talk in at the House tables rose in anticipation, and all seemed normal, and to utterly confirm the idea of possible insanity; there was a peace in the flutter of wings and gentle hooting-

Then a pall seemed to spread over the room; a silence that spread - and then she saw it, the black owl bearing a purple Ministry envelope, heading straight for the Hufflepuff table-

Death.

The owl landed beside a girl with long golden plaits, who stared at the letter as though it was the figment of a dream-

Next to her, Martha's Daily Prophet was dropped into her outstretched hand. Unfolding it, she stared at the front page - and then went rigid. A twinge of horror shot down Minerva's spine, and she prised the paper from Martha's fingers. The headline, set above a picture in which a skull leered over a burning house, a snake drooling from its jaw, seared itself into her brain, just as the girl at the Hufflepuff table began to sob.  
_  
_

_THE DARK MARK SHINES AGAIN_

_Family wiped out by Dark wizards_

Numbly, she looked up, towards the Gryffindor table. Some distance away, a thin boy with a shock of auburn hair was staring back at her, a copy of the Daily Prophet hanging limply in his hands.

**A/N: Again, a chapter which I had to wrestle with. We're about 80 percent done and the pacing is mucking my head around. **

**Anyway, a few of you wished me luck at my Cambridge interview, and a couple wished to know the result. I've been given an offer for English at Trinity College - it seems the luck certainly helped. And yes, I am dancing for joy. **


	27. The Serpent Unveiled

**A/N: I've been absent for too long, I know! The truth is I've had the worst attack of writer's block yet. I would like to say that I wanted to compensate my wonderful reviewers by writing a longer chapter than usual (sixteen pages on Word as opposed to the average eleven), but it was actually due to certain scenes lasting for longer than I had anticipated. I'm not happy with the result (having ended up writing without much inspiration), but I think I've reached the stage where rejigging just makes it worse. I hope this isn't too disappointing, and I hope that I haven't lost too many readers with my slow updates.**

**Skite - About Malfoy... Yes, I'm afraid I made an assumption there. After HBP it seemed to me as if Draco was going to end up on the Light side - and I imagine such a situation as resulting in Malfoy treating Harry rather deferentially, but with an edge of mockery. The idea was so clear to me I just forgot to explain it!**

**One last note - well, I'm very disappointed in you all! Did no one notice that David Potter suddenly became Daniel? No? Well he's back to David again!**

Platform Nine and Three Quarters was quieter than usual.

The comparative silence hit Albus as soon as he and Eric were disgorged from the Hogwarts Express, hit him with all the sharpness of the winter air. Pale faces lurched towards him. Out of the corner of his eye, Cal was be glimpsed flushing with embarrassment as his mother's arms enveloped him, and beyond, form made indistinct by the steam, a burly Sixth Year could be seen attempting to extricate himself from the same hazard. A Third Year girl was half-pulled out the train by her father, and people were hugging through the layers of warm clothes made necessary by the weather. Families made clumps, luggage forgotten and strewn on the ground. The sight sent a quiver through him; it was too familiar…

"Eric! Eric! Lucien, _s'accélérer!_ Francois, _sortir de cette dévergondée! _Eric!"

Fleur emerged from the haze, followed by two young men who could only be Eric's older brothers; one red-haired and freckled and the other pale and blond, with something of a Veela about him as he leered at a gaping Fifth Year. Albus stood aside awkwardly as Brian's friend ducked his head and responded to his mother's deluge of rapid French with reluctance. Fleur's arms eventually followed the trend and wrapped themselves around her son. Eric grimaced at Brian, but Albus could only lower his eyes.

Who could blame them, he thought, wearily.

Fleur began to drag her sons away, leaving Brian abandoned on the platform, but her voice started up again only a few feet away.

"Ah, _le sauveur de ma soeur!_ Harry! Your son, he iz all alone and unprotected!"

His 'father's' reply sounded slightly disgruntled. "I don't think Platform Nine and Three Quarters is very dangerous."

"Ah, what can you know, theze days? Everyone here, zey could all be Dark as ze night!"

"I honestly don't think so, Fleur. You shouldn't worry."

Moments later, Harry's head rose above the crowd, expression irritated. Albus began to force Brian's body through the gaps between the huddled groups, trying not to think of Minerva as he passed a young witch with sable locks. Harry's emerald eyes flashed in his direction, and the crowd parted, to reveal both of Brian's parents.

Ginny patted his shoulder in an exaggeratedly casual way.

"Had a good journey?"

"Fine, Mum. Have Eric and his brothers gone?"

"Yes, thank goodness," Ginny replied, rolling her eyes at Harry. "Fleur seems to be convinced that this Christmas will be her last. I think it will be, if she keeps on going around accusing everyone of being Dark."

The Chief Auror sighed. "Unfortunately she's not the only one."

"Honestly, people are being ridiculous. As soon as we got onto the platform, some stranger shook your father's hand and told him that he had 'every confidence in his ability to get to the root of it' and this old witch whom I'd never seen before in my life had the cheek to say that he was a 'beacon of hope.' The way people are behaving, you would think Voldemort was back. Just _one_ attack!"

She nodded at a mother draped around her Seventh Year son.

Albus looked over. The witch's face was white and twisted, and her fingers were clawed into her son's robes. A succession of memories seemed to superimpose themselves over the image, in an endless reflection of similar desperate mothers… Perhaps even his own mother - his real mother - had once been that worried, and perhaps, like the red-faced youth, he had not understood… A heaviness bent his head.

"They're frightened. Evil like that of Voldemort leaves its mark on a society for decades, and it only ever fades just before the next evil comes along. When people remember what they can lose, then they find they need to love as much as they can."

Harry looked strangely at his son. "You think there will be another Voldemort?"

"Certainly. Like Voldemort is another Grindelwald, and Grindelwald is another Fortescue."

"Fortescue? He's an ice-cream seller."

"He's a descendent of one of the old Dark Lords. Voldemort was by no means the first 'You-Know-Who.' When-"

Albus cut himself off, realising that Brian's mask had slipped. Ginny's mouth was slightly open and his 'father' was a shade paler than usual, his face grave but his eyes gleaming. The way Brian then bit his lip did not need to be faked; emotion dredged up from over a century before had made him careless, and the words could not be easily retracted. The green orbs above him held a quiet astonishment. There was a silence.

At last, Harry shook his head, and gave Brian a small smile. "You're probably right - about everything. People _are_ frightened. The letters I keep getting make it obvious."

The Potters moved towards the barrier. Ginny's arms were suddenly noticeably empty; Albus looked up again at Harry.

"Where's David?"

"With your gran. Molly's been begging for a day with him since he was born, and we were thinking of having dinner out tonight anyway, before taking you home. There's a Muggle restaurant a couple of streets away."

_Restaurant…_ _Minerva._ He imagined Minerva sitting opposite him, eyes glittering in the red halo formed by a lighted candle, red lips closing round a spoon. Her distance struck him anew, like a physical blow. The last Saturday before the Hogwarts Express parted them had been one of silent sadness; their intimacy had been all the more intense in anticipation of its end, if only temporary - for if it was agony for Minerva to walk down a corridor in the opposite direction, then what would lines of ink on parchment be? The memory was enough to render Brian speechless for the journey to the restaurant; he came to only when a menu was thrust at him at their table-

"Pepper steak?"

Albus blinked and sat up, but Harry was speaking to Ginny, not to Brian. Sighing, he glanced around.

The restaurant was a moderately expensive one, by Muggle standards. The chair he sat in was heavily padded, and the piano music in the background came not from one of the small black boxes hung in the corners but from a living musician on a dais some distance away. Beneath the tinkling of the piano, the sound of a water gushing was audible, as if from a fountain. The tables were shielded by plants and fish-tanks; the Potters were enclosed in a circle of privacy, and the talk from other groups was muffled.

_A family restaurant_ - and he was the cuckoo in the nest. The same old awkwardness of deceit… He positioned his menu so as to block out the faces of his 'parents.'

"Orders, sir?"

The waiter's appearance made him jump. Harry grinned and began ordering. Albus picked the first thing on the menu, staring fixedly at the waiter. Ginny leaned forward.

"How has school been?"

"Fine." Perhaps it would be best to make Brian monosyllabic? No, awkwardness aside, there was information to be extracted. "What was the name of the family to be attacked?"

Harry's beam disappeared so quickly that Albus felt a pang of guilt. The Chief Auror leant back in his chair and directed a frown at the ceiling.

"Jones."

"Hestia," muttered Albus softly. The pink-cheeked witch's face seemed to hover before him, still laughing at a joke Dung had made at one of the last Order meetings. For a moment, time was immaterial; he had been at the meeting only the day before… A sickness eased into his stomach. The speculation had been right; the target of the Dark wizards had not been random - no, even after his death he was still paying for the founding of the Order with the blood of its members. Harry's reply crystallised in his memory, stored with similar news, similar faces-

_"The McKinnons-" "Dorcas - she's been-" "-Killed Gideon and Fabian-" "Frank and Alice - they've been-" "James… Lily…"_

"Brian?"

"Fine," he said, before Harry could say anything further, pulling his face back into shape. "I'm fine."

"About Hestia-"

"I read it somewhere." He looked away, deliberately, in covert reference to the book Brian had supposedly read. The bait worked; his parents exchanged a glance. Underneath the table, his fist clenched: _stupid fool._

"Well, you've got your head screwed on," said Harry, nodding sadly at him. "Hestia Jones was in the Order. She and her daughter's family were murdered because of it - to make a point. By the time the Aurors were alerted, we were too late. We caught nobody. We arrived in time to see one Disapparate, but all anyone could say about him is that he was wearing a Death Eater mask and was dressed in black - a description which could be applied to any of these Neo-Dark idiots."

Albus raised his eyebrows. "So you think it's just a one-off copy-cat murder?"

Harry shrugged. "Who can know?"

All three were silent as the waiter returned, bearing drinks and plates, but the Chief Auror kept his eyes firmly on his son, whose hand was stroking a strangely beardless chin. The encounters with Ozzy and Jonathan Blaine, plus the contents of Harry's previous letters, were providing much food for thought. Heavily, he noted how familiar the speculation was - how often similar ideas had flitted through his brain during the last years of his previous life… The roasted chicken landing before him earned a grin that was entirely mirthless; his words to Harry seemed irrefutably confirmed - the Neo-Dark was no more new than his mind was young.

He was back in the hushed Wizengamot courtroom, and Jonathan Blaine was speaking, grey with dismay, repeating his letters to-

_Lord Snape._

Albus closed his eyes. _Severus, please…_

Was that the future, he wondered darkly. Would there now be a battle against 'Lord Snape?' _Lord Fortescue, the 'Dark King' Grindelwald, Lord Voldemort… Lord Snape_ - an infinite succession of evil…

"It is reasonable to assume that they will attack other Order families," he heard himself saying, a good deal more calmly than his thoughts. "If it was not intended to be a single incident, the symbolism of it will probably be enforced through further attacks."

He opened his eyes, and focussed them on Harry's.

"It's probably also safe to assume that you're a target. If Snape is their inspiration as Voldemort's follower, then Voldemort's killer is hardly their friend. And I'm probably a target as well, as your son, as demonstrated by Blaine-"

Ginny's glass of wine tumbled over, knocked by a convulsively reaching hand. The man beside her stiffened, and his knuckles whitened around the neck of his own. The wine spread over the white table-cloth, the scarlet blossoming like blood. Dispassionately, Albus watched, suppressing a frown. He felt a bizarre mixture of detachment and involvement; the wine was _his_ blood, but it had already been spilt, and there was little to be done about it. Perhaps he had been too eloquent in his expression for a twelve-year-old, and a stutter or two would not have been out of place, but a twelve-year-old Harry would have surely realised the same thing? Had not the adult Harry realised it yet himself?

"It's true," he said, injecting some defiance.

The Chief Auror swallowed, and stared as if mesmerised at the crimson, suddenly ghastly against the white. Slowly the green orbs came upwards, holding an anguished intensity.

The stare sent a cold bolt through him - he was back on the platform, watching mothers and children embrace, watching others failing to understand, only to neglect that understanding himself… _Brian Sirius Potter._ A boy, a child… a son.

Harry drew in a shaky breath, and ran a hand through his hair. "We… did not expect you to know. But - well - you're intelligent. What you've just said proves that."

"Brian…"

Ginny's eyes were wide. Her husband gave another painful glance at the wine-stain before vanishing it with a wave of his wand. Some calm part of Albus observed that Brian's desire to reassure his parents and the Ex-Headmaster's to comfort his protégé were, for once, one and the same.

"I'm _fine._ I'm not frightened. Professor Brady gave me extra lessons and I'm good at Defence anyway; I can look after myself. Anyway, Mum, you yourself said that to panic over one attack is ridiculous."

"Ah, but there are hundreds of them," said Harry wearily. "We can't take any chances."

Albus resisted the urge to get up and pace, and instead spoke into the candle-flame. "In times of darkness, chances must be taken, and choices must be made - between what is right and what is easy, what is necessary and what is not. To every path there are many forks. But once evil shows its face, we must go forward to meet it."

There was a pause, a silence broken only by the the distant tinkle of cutlery. The father looked at his son without speaking, mentally tracing the solemn visage. They left the restaurant only a few minutes later. The Knight Bus journey home took place in an awkward hush, the boy evading the father's stare. Brian retired to his room immediately on reaching the Potter residence, armed with a book and the phoenix. The evening was not mentioned again. Harry's words, weighted with pride and amazement, were enough.

"I think Ollivander was right about you. You're like him. Like Dumbledore."

* * *

Christmas Day came suddenly, without much fanfare. Drizzle blew half-heartedly against window panes, misting the dreary sky from view. The chill of previous weeks lessened in its intensity; no pleasurable shudder of contrast could be gained by curling the toes in a rug or remaining cocooned in a quilt. Not that the Headmistress was at liberty to do anything of the kind, Minerva thought dully. Christmas was nothing more than a desert of endless irritations, with no Albus to sooth them away. 

The festivities had come to Hogwarts with somewhat less than their usual cheer; the _Daily Prophet_ continued to make grim predictions whilst at the same time publishing countless articles from esteemed unknowns on how the attack was meaningless - the sheer volume of which serving the make all reassurances even less convincing than they were before. Sybil managed to dominate the staff-room simply by staring into a tea-cup and nodding portentously, and the few students who remained at the castle were to be found huddled in corners, whispering. In the glow of several hundred fairy-lit lamps and strands of magical tinsel, the Headmistress found herself aware of a darkness behind them, as though all the celebrations were a glittering mask raised to conceal a deep, blank certainty.

Perhaps it was this awareness that made the celebrations all the more raucous, she reflected. The Ravenclaw Christmas party, usually so demure, had been rousing enough to summon a furious Filius to the scene, and the House-Elves outdid themselves, heaving every available surface with food, and warming duvets and blankets to the extent that Pomona complained of burns. Hagrid brought a bottle of eggnog up to Minerva's office as a present and refused to leave, and was then joined by Poppy, who, in spite of all protests, assessed the Headmistress's health as being "in need of some pudding."

"It's Christmas! You shouldn't be sitting in your office, staring into space! You should be enjoying yourself!"

_"Easier said than done,"_ she had replied.

For one thing, 'staring into space' was preferable to being stared at. For the first time, with the dizzying influence of Albus out of the castle, she became conscious of a tension in the air that seemed to come with her entry into the staff-room, an offended gravity in each ensuing silence. Slughorn's amiability suddenly seemed both exaggerated and false, and whilst there was no surprise to be had in Sybil's behaviour, the narrow-eyed glances of Pomona gave her an unpleasant jolt every time she noticed them. How long had she been the subject of such looks? Had Serena Sinistra always been so curt with her? A veil had lifted; she could no longer sit comfortably at the High Table without noticing that Poppy, Filius and Hagrid appeared to be the only people willing to engage in conversation. Fewer presents addressed to 'Minerva McGonagall' arrived beneath the staff-room Christmas tree, and there was suddenly no way of telling whether or not those which had been given had been so out of any sincerity.

Yet her temper could not rise – not when there was justification for such behaviour. After all, she thought, a Headmistress who did not speak for years was offensive enough; the only cause for astonishment was that it had not happened earlier.

"That's not the reason," Poppy had assured her one breakfast. "Everyone was very upset when you were miserable. We were all very worried about you."

"But what other reason is there?"

"Well…" The Healer had shifted in her seat, and the brown eyes roved over the Hall, as if tracking a running man-

_Aberforth._

Of course that was it. The eyes of the world only saw a public refusal and then a happiness that could only have seemed callous; nothing was seen of the soul behind Brian's face, nor the turmoil between Aberforth and a dead man. A stream of mysterious gifts and forget-me-nots had certainly not helped. Anger made her just as sharp, just as curt. If she had been devastated for six months and then dared smile, would that have been acceptable? Or perhaps a marriage of unequal love? Aberforth's accusing eyes seemed to follow her around the school, pained and watery. Yes, yes she had hurt him, had 'led him on' if unintentionally, had humiliated him, had perhaps broken him-

_"The Hog's Head? Oh, that's been closed since September-"_

A snippet of a student's conversation, and she had halted so suddenly in the corridor that Hagrid behind had almost walked into her. The guilt knifed down her chest. For a moment, her fury flung itself against Poppy and Rolanda for failing to tell her – failing to say what must have been known… No, she corrected herself, as she leant against the wall, closing her eyes and trying to block out the old wizard's face; this was the pain they had tried to save her from.

Christmas Day, and her mood, had been brightened only by the appearance of a garishly wrapped package, accompanied by a letter:

_Dear Minerva, _

_A Merry Christmas to you, with as much love as my heart can give before it breaks. _

_You asked about my research. I'm afraid I have not done as much as my conscience demands (though there is only so much one can do without being able to use magic), but I have at least made a break-through. My notes on the Transmutation Matrix and alchemy appeared to have an overarching theme to them. I think I've said before that alchemy, transfiguration and aging all seem very much the same in their processes, but it has struck me recently that all transfiguration spells seem to involve pushing particles beyond the natural point they aspire to, and that this point appears seems very similar to the Philosopher's Stone - not the sort that Nicholas and I produced, but a more 'internal' one. _

_Are the staff planning anything for Christmas? Brian's 'parents' intend on taking him and brother David to stay a few days round the Burrow. I also heard tell of some sort of Order reunion; is this true? I hope so, and I hope Brian is invited. Every moment away from you is unbearable, my goddess._

_Ginny has taken up knitting, as have I - a much-neglected art on my part, I fear. On my honour, I promise to eventually produce a pair of socks for you. In the meantime, I enclose my present (be sure not to open it before it is time, my dear!). _

_Once again, a Merry Christmas! _

_Eternally yours, _

_Albus_

* * *

The Order reunion, initiated by the Weasleys, came quickly, the day after Boxing Day. 

When Minerva arrived, Twelve Grimmauld Place was already crowded, the dim living room bursting with people. Various branches of the Weasley family were scattered around, ranging from Arthur in the middle of a description of a work incident involving enchanted 'compooters' to the four-year-old Hannah burbling on Hermione's lap. A disgruntled-looking Fleur sat on the sofa next to Hagrid, who was busy speaking with Tonks. From the way he was gesturing, Minerva guessed that the conversation was about dragons. Bill and Arthur appeared to be having a heated discussion about the attack on Hestia, and those surrounding them looked rather subdued. Eric was talking to Charlie's son Michael, raving about the newly released Thunderfly racing broom. Moving further into the room, Remus could be seen standing by the chair Aberforth had once occupied-

She pushed the thought away. Moody was present, talking to Abigail Lupin, and the magical eye revolved contemptuously in her direction, but she deliberately looked away, over at Harry and Ginny. The sight of them made her halt, and search for auburn.

"Professor McGonagall!"

Hermione had spotted her. A wine glass was thrust into her hands. Minerva moved forward again, and said something, but that something was lost in the glimpse of a set of characteristic purple and gold robes. Her gaze drifted away from Hermione, over to the other side of the room.

Brian - no, Albus - was sitting in an armchair. The blue eyes met hers, with all the strength of the man behind the boy.

She felt a sudden flush of attraction brighten her face and move beneath her robes. She smiled, and forced herself to look away, at the young Alanna Weasley perched on her mother's knee. As Hermione chattered, talking about everything from the Department of Mysteries to her daughter's first go on a bike, her eyes kept moving back to the armchair, as if drawn by a magnet. A wink, and the heat in her cheeks increased.

"Are you feeling all right, Professor?" asked Ginny, expression one of concern. "You look a little feverish."

"I'm quite well. Just a little hot," she said quickly. "Perhaps I should sit down."

Space was hastily made for her on the crowded sofa. Moody glared, but said nothing. A feeling of satisfaction flared in her; the same excitement as wearing red for the benefit of one disguised observer was present in the pretence of indifference in the exchange of glances. In simply looking they were engaging in some small secret interaction, invisible to all others in the room. Hermione opened her mouth, about to launch into a more thorough outline of the elections taking place within S.P.E.W, but Molly's head appeared around the side of the door.

"Dinner's ready!"

There was a collective mumble of appreciation. Minerva deliberately seized a book lying on the coffee table and rifled through it. The excuse was enough; nobody asked why she wasn't yet following the others to dinner. Across the room, the auburn-haired boy remained seated. The room was suddenly empty, and they were alone.

Albus sprang to his feet as soon as the door closed. He stepped towards her, and then stood stock-still, as if holding in a barely-restrained passion.

"Minerva…"

"I've missed you," she said softly. His Adam's apple bobbed.

"And I you. Christmas was..." He waved a hand, as though dismissing it from mind.

She looked at him, wanting the auburn locks to be longer so she could wind her fingers in them. The barrier of form once again stifled them, oppressed them with convention. The ache inside her seemed to speak by itself:

"I wish…"

What exactly she wished was neither clear nor possible - perhaps it did not even matter. Albus rushed to her chair, and stood beside it trembling, as though physically tugged towards her. Brian's young hand clutched hers, but for once the youth did not strike her, only the force in the sapphire above-

"Mate? Are you coming?"

Eric's puzzled countenance hovered at the side of the door. _The Headmistress and her student, holding hands and staring intensely into one another's eyes-_

Albus dropped her hand as if it had stung him, and immediately made his face worried and alarmed. "Professor, are you sure you don't need my help getting up?"

The acting was superb. A second passed before she was able to respond, and press a hand to her temple. "Don't be ridiculous, Mr Potter! I merely have a headache! I will move when it passes, and not before!"

Eric's disquietened expression eased slightly. "Oh - uh - sorry Professor, I just came to get Brian…"

The meal was splendid, a wonder of chicken and potatoes garnished with onions. Molly was complimented multiple times, and the judicious hand of Moody prevented Hagrid from drinking too much wine. At a look from Harry, the depressing conversation about Hestia was halted and never restarted. So it was that the Order reunion passed with considerable enjoyment, though a careful observer would have noted that one young Weasley looked from his Headmistress to his friend and back again, brow furrowed.

* * *

The morning of January the 6th dawned reluctantly, as if in anticipation of the new term. Albus watched Eric's face as they took the unsteady journey by Knight Bus to the station, and several times caught a troubled expression that flickered uneasily over the freckled features. The look was more confused than suspicious; the idea of Brian being in any way involved with his Headmistress was not one which would break readily into the other boy's consciousness. Eric behaved perfectly normally, chattering away about Quidditch results and speculating as to whether Gryffindor or Ravenclaw would win the House cup, and the knot in Albus's stomach, the dead weight of which had woken him, began to loosen into nothingness. After all, he reminded himself, all Eric had seen was a look and a pair of clasped hands. 

The crowds on the platform were somewhat calmer than they had been when the Christmas holidays had begun; although a number of offspring were to be found trapped in a desperate embrace, the silence of the rumoured Dark Lord appeared to have alleviated most fears, and students were dispatched to the Hogwarts Express with a wave. The two Gryffindors soon found themselves caught in an inexorable stream of people struggling for choice compartments.

"Oof!" Eric grunted as an older year barrelled past him. "Shall we go up the end? I can see Daniel!"

Not bothering to respond, Albus waded through a mass of First-Years, keeping his eyes fixed on the red head bobbing in front of him. The Weasley boy rounded the curve of a large Sixth-Year, only to halt so abruptly that his 'friend' crashed into him.

"What's the matter?"

"Why's _she_ here?"

Albus followed his gaze. Martha Read was on the platform, only marginally visible over the heads of the crowd. Her hawk-like stare swept towards them; Eric ducked, but Albus stared back, and allowed the confusion to become naked. Why on earth was Martha on the platform? Her expression stiffened, and the eyes dropped. He watched her, but the crowd engulfed them, sweeping them away.

There was no time to speak until they had entered a compartment – one already occupied by Mark, Daniel and Cal , the first of whom sneered as Brian entered. Ignoring him, he sat down and peered out of the window, but the professor nowhere in sight. Trying to quell the niggling feeling at the edge of his mind, he turned his attention back to the group of boys, just in time to hear Mark say:

"Yes, looked like she was looking for someone, didn't she? Asked her why she was there and she said it was none of my business! Bet you she was waiting for a boyfriend."

Daniel made a face, and opened his mouth, but at that moment Cal let out a whimper. Albus looked at him, nonplussed, until he realised that the startled eyes were aimed at something behind him-

He turned in time to glimpse a white face pressed against the window in the compartment door, threaded through with purple collapsed veins, fiery orbs widening with crazed delight-

There was a jolt as the train started to move, and the face vanished. The wall of the corridor outside stared innocently back at them. For a moment, the boys did nothing but stare back, stunned into silence. Cal was pressed back into his seat, knuckles whitening over the handle of his lunch-bag.

"What the hell-"

"Everyone saw it, right?" said Daniel shakily. "It wasn't just me-"

Albus rose, heart-beat throbbing in time to the chug of the train, and withdrew his wand. Keeping his arm outstretched, he wrenched open the door and looked both ways down the corridor. Emptiness looked back. He turned back to the door, and peered at the window-pane. Mist clung to the outside; the face had been real, and breathing. Carefully, he stepped out of view of the door, and pointed his wand down the corridor.

_Vita aperio._

Nothing happened; if the owner of the face was invisible, than he was invisible by means other than magic. Balancing the wand on a finger, he concentrated on Dark magic specifically. The wand hummed and spun; someone who had at least once dabbled in Dark magic had shortly walked past the door. An older student perhaps? Or… He let himself back into the compartment and met the scared eyes of the other Gryffindors.

"Someone was there. Their breath was on the window, but they're not anywhere nearby."

Mark slumped down. "Took your time, didn't you? We thought you'd been-"

"It was probably just someone from the older years," said Eric quickly. "Right, Brian?"

"Possibly."

_"Possibly?_ Well, who else could it have been?" demanded Mark half-angrily. "It _must_ have been."

"Yeah," squeaked Cal . "Yeah, I thought that too!"

Nothing more was said on the subject, though the door attracted nervous glances for the next twenty minutes. The train moved off, a steady thrum reverberating up through the floor. Buildings flashed by in a blur, receding slowly away to trees. Albus tried to participate in the conversation, but the image of the face came back to trouble him, pressing against the glass of his mind, making all realistic pretence impossible. There was something familiar about the fiery eyes, the stretched jeering lips, the narrow protuberant nose… On the other hand, Dark magic did not necessarily mean a fully-fledged Dark wizard, and a touch of familiarity in a face was surely inevitable – as Headmaster he had seen generations of students passing through, to be succeeded by their children, and their children's children-

_Like Potter._

William, Matthias, Timothy, Charlus, James, Harry… _Brian_. A collection of appealing irises, from grey to brown to green, attracting empathy until he had crept behind them.

Stubbornly, he forced Minerva's face to the fore. What else mattered? Nothing at all, not even the darkest of ironies.

The hours passed by. The witch with her trolley came round, and her appearance at the door made the other boys pause, and then laugh nervously. Daniel and Mark played Exploding Snap, letting out loud hoots at every miniature detonation. Eric once again chattered away about Quidditch, and the Thunderfly was brandished for Daniel's awed inspection. Brian was availed upon to talk about what Mark called his Christmas 'haul;' Albus sank into his role and provided descriptions and anecdotes. As evening drew nearer, his lids became heavy. His gaze turned towards the passing woods and fields, grey in the failing light. Brian's reflection looked back at him, circled eyes wearing the young face like a mask, set into an expression of endless bewilderment…

* * *

He woke in mid-air. 

For a few seconds, the world was a silent one, filled with the compartment wall and Daniel's frightened features, both heading towards him-

Then the screech of brakes broke in, followed by Eric's shriek, and the wall rushed forwards and punched him on the nose-

An almighty crashing sound-

Someone's elbow dug into his ribs; he tried to pull backwards but the pressure was too great, he was squashed against the wall, gushing blood-

The lights died. Someone's breath fluttered over his face. The bony lump beneath him gave a heave; he fell off, the pain in his nose making his eyes water. He tried to speak, but the blood crept into his mouth and choked him. Reaction was impossible; the pain had taken place of thought. There was a rustle as someone moved.

"What-" Mark's voice began, but there was another crash as the compartment door was flung open.

_"Lumos!"_

A white face hung in the air, a pale circle around a wand. He recognised the bloodshot eyes and his hand dived into his pocket-

_"Petrificus Totalus!"_

-Too slow to block, too slow to think-

-His arms snapped to his sides; he was frozen, helpless-

Cal let out a scream and ran forwards, but the wand was lifting to and turning in his direction-

_"Avada Kedavra!"_

Green light seared into his revolving eyeballs; the boy's death came as a sting, and a sudden blinding-

The thump of a body paralysed him more completely than the Body Bind. From the corridor outside came the muffled sounds of a struggle. Daniel gave a murmur, and then a cry as the raised wand swung upwards, pointing to the clouds beyond the compartment ceiling. A grin curled itself over the wizard's lips.

_"MOSMORDRE!"_

Another, less lethal burst of green, before the spell passed outside. There was a distant roar, a collective shout of horror-

The grinning visage sped towards him. He sensed Eric lunge, wondered how many more Weasleys would shed blood on his behalf-

_My boy, my foolish boy-_

Yet Avada Kedavra was replaced with Crucio; Eric's shrieks were evidence of the blood still frothing in his veins, the breath that gave him voice. A Levitation charm was uttered; Brian's stiff body lifted into the air, the wand dropping ineffectually out of his pocket. He was moving out into the bristling corridor, and turning-

-Impact-

-Oblivion.

* * *

The darkness moved, and became a dream. He was in a field, watching the wind form a current through the grass. Clouds eased lazily over an azure sky. An old, haggard figure was sitting propped up against the tree, a book perched on his lap. A long beard shone silver in the light of a midday sun, and a pair of half-moon spectacles glinted. The lines of the stranger were well-known to him; perhaps there had been a point when they had confronted him in a mirror..? It did not matter. The old face twitched in a smile. One gnarled hand reached inside his magnificent robes and drew out something with glittered and glowed, its bloody hue bleaching all other colour away...

* * *

"… Idiot Mulciber! Killing the brat-" 

"-Tired of running round like flippin' rabbits-"

Albus's head pounded. He let out a groan; something was digging into his back…

"-Get the boy, get out - that was the plan-"

"And didn't I? Would you have done it better, Mortimer? Blasted kid just ran at me-"

Awareness was coming back to him, along with multiple aches. The voices were louder, more distinct. Mulciber… An image came to him, that of a sharp-faced teenager spitting defiance at a Wizengamot court, and then of a photograph on the _Wanted Fugitive_ page of the _Daily Prophet._ He opened his eyes.

A graveyard sprang into focus. Lichen-grown granite slabs stuck out of the black earth like broken teeth, and a wizened yew tree stood away to the left, seeming bent under the weight of its few remaining leaves. The sight of the church beyond made Albus stiffen against the cold surface behind him - this was a place he had never been, but had only been told about, told by a youth with a scar branded on his forehead, who, like Brian, had just seen the death of a friend-

_Little Hangleton._

Tom Riddle.

The connection was such that the cut of the ropes binding him to the gravestone was almost expected. He moved his eyes away from the graveyard itself and onto the figures who prowled it.

Mulciber stood only a few feet away from him. The twilight was enough to match the remembered image with the veined jowls, though in truth the ex-Death Eater was barely recognisable, his features ruined by drink. He was talking to two younger men, both dressed in black robes, who every now and then ducked their heads towards the yew. Yards from them gathered seven other robed figures, men and women, all masked and flicking their eyes from the gravestone to the tree and back again.

The man standing beneath the tree naturally drew the eye; the impression gained was one of lazily restrained power. His grey orbs and sculpted face again triggered a vague feeling of familiarity, but before Albus could think of any names, the wizard looked towards him. He spoke, voice thrumming with nuances, the tones of a pretended intellectual.

"Quiet. I think our little friend has awoken."

The gathered witches and wizards tensed, and Mulciber stopped talking, but Albus felt an odd relief pass through him. The Body Bind was gone, and ropes could restrain a genuine twelve-year-old, but not a false one. Shoving the thought of Cal away, he directed a smile at the leader, whose own wavered in response.

"A rude awakening, I believe."

Mulciber let out a hiss. The other man frowned slightly.

"Is this the Potter bravado I've heard of?"

Albus shrugged. The watching crowd trembled, as though a wind had passed through them. Their leader, he was vaguely impressed to note, although disconcerted, raised an eyebrow coolly.

"We can't be having that. _Crucio!"_

The pain took his breath away and made him press against his bonds, but he kept his jaw clamped. Eleven identical leers could be seen, even as the tendrils of returning oblivion crept across his cortex, unseen grasp in time with the stabbling of invisible needles. Afterwards, he looked up and smiled again. A spark of anger lit in the grey eyes.

"Bravado, or mere insolence?"

"Perhaps. But then, you are being impolite. We have not been introduced."

A sudden, violent movement brought the wizard next to him, and the wand to his throat. "Heard of Lord Snape?"

"Yes. You're not him," Albus said agreeably.

"I report to him."

"Goodness." The Tower flashed before him. "But you are?"

"Aloysius Dolohov."

"Ah. Yes, you have your father's eyes. And personally I've always found the Dolohov nose to be rather identifiable."

Mulciber gave another hiss, and the gathered figures shuffled their feet. Dolohov's face remained like stone, but the pupils contracted. The wand-tip pressed into Brian's throat until the pulse beat against it.

_"Crucio!"_

This time the agony was all-engulfing, sending his body bucking out of control. The vessel in his nose burst again, sending scarlet dribbling over Brian's robes. White heat enclosed him, leaving only a pair of satisfied grey eyes visible. His limbs trembled, even when the spell ended.

"Are we still feeling smart, Potter? My father died in Azkaban before you were born. But I'm sure the Dark Lord will enjoy your chatter. You see, your death will open a new epoch, along with that of your precious father - appropriate, as he helped the old Lord rise before, yes? I view this as a… continuation. A balancing out, so to speak. The Death Eaters have returned. The old Lord inspired considerable loyalty, as now does his second-in-command."

"Loyalty born out of fear, Dolohov," Albus gasped. "And that is no loyalty at all."

The words meant nothing; the pain in his chest continued beyond the Cruciatus. _Severus_. If Voldemort had not inspired true loyalty, then neither had he.

Dolohov smirked. "We'll see. Enough prattle. Mulciber, has the message been dispatched to Potter senior?"

"Of course, Lieutenant."

"Splendid," the wizard said languidly. "That should bring our guest running. Now-"

He cut himself off, and looked up. An owl was pelting towards the group, a scrap of parchment held in its beak. An unnatural stillness came over the crowd, along with an intolerable silence. Albus felt a dreadful anticipation rise within him as Dolohov caught the parchment and flicked his eyes over it. The Death Eater stiffened. Then he threw back his head and gave a barking laugh.

"Word from our Lord!"

_No._

The thought could not be checked, and was so strong that Albus's lips moved, echoing it. _Merlin, no…_

The assembled witches and wizards started. Dolohov laughed again, and turned the parchment so it was facing the crowd. Lines of spidery, cramped script ran over the parchment. The name on the bottom was irrelevant to the ex-Headmaster; numbness spread through him as he watched the Death Eater brandish a page of the writing which had once adorned the essays of pupils, school forms, letters… That signature. Severus Snape, Professor S. Snape, S.S, Hogwarts Potions Master… _Your Lord._

His eyes watered. The graveyard spun away from him, into another dimension. There was nothing but the flat resounding resonance of horror.

_Severus, please._

What belief was it that he still clung to? Would there always be a part of him that could not accept, would never accept the betrayal? The foolishness that had led into death still endured; at his core Severus remained to him a man-child, a vulnerable boy hiding under a cold exterior. The pain in his chest increased, sharply. He too was like a child – unable to accept the breaking of his trust, and unable to believe in the brutality of the truth. There was no reconciling the ruthless traitor Snape with the youngster whom he had once found blinking back tears in the Slytherin Common Room. Severus Snape, but a prequel to Harry Potter.

_My boy._

Yes, he had called Severus that, on more than one occasion-

Had it been his fault? Perhaps he had not paid him proper attention, perhaps the use of a spy had been manipulative, perhaps he had not punished the Marauders adequately-

No, it was absurd; the last years of their relationship had not been defined in terms of events or even behaviour. He had believed in something deeper. What else could he think, when Severus had so prostrated himself upon the first fall of Voldemort? He had trusted – he had put faith in the hopeless love for Lily and the wells of impossible remorse… No. He had not merely believed, but dared to _love-_

He writhed on the headstone. Brian's death meant nothing, the will to struggle was tapped and gone. Dolohov's laughter was in his ears, in his soul-

_"Crucio!"_

He let out a cry then, a wordless lament that had nothing to do with the fire in his nerves but with a lost son-

"He comes to us! He comes to us! He will meet us face to face!"

The Death Eaters roared with fervour. Cackles of delight echoed around the graveyard. Dolohov's features were twisted out of their natural serenity into a madness. Albus realised dimly that a lost son had become a returning father; their triumph was in the idea of a first meeting, _face to face-_

_Crack!_

"STUPEFY!"

One of the Death Eaters near Mulciber toppled over, and Dolohov's laughter cut off mid-peal. For a second surprise kept them all, Albus included, stunned and staring at the fallen body-

"STUPEFY!"

The voice suddenly became both identifiable and entirely inexplicable; Martha Read was racing between the headstones towards them, wand out, alone and desperate. Albus stared at the tangled brown curls in astonishment. The discovery of the mind behind Brian's face had indeed unhinged her – she was running, outnumbered ten to one-

Dolohov surged forwards, grin restored. Mulciber, dodging the Stunner, whipped out his wand-

Now was the moment. Wand or no, ropes were no match for pure mezrel. He drew his core outwards, felt the headstone crack, the ropes slacken-

"CRUCIO!" shrieked Dolohov.

Martha leapt aside, but continued heading straight for them, though the other Death Eaters were moving round, trapping her with superior numbers-

Albus jumped at the nearest Death Eater, a plump man with his back to him. There was a grunt of surprise – then the Death Eater was on the floor, the pain between his legs loosening his grip on his wand-

"STUPEFY!"

"IMPEDIMENTA!"

"CRUCIO!"

Martha responded before the spells were cast, threw up a shield before they opened their mouths. _Leglimency,_ thought Albus, running with the stolen wand thrumming uneasily in his hand. Mulciber was moving in the direction of the yew tree; he pointed the wand at it, and the tree wrapped a branch around him-

"The boy!" Dolohov bellowed.

_"Ira Tempestas!"_

The air flooded with electricity, brushing slickly at his cheeks. He ran at Martha, shouting for her to get out of the way-

The lightning broke out, sizzling and jumping across the graveyard. There had been no time to ensure any precision; the storm raged all around, drowning out the screams of those who tried to avoid it. The youth Mortimer yelped as a bolt shot past his nose, and a female Death Eater's shriek was cut short as another wasted her to a skeleton. The others stood back, mouths open, gaping at the boy who had just cast a Wizengamot level spell-

He looked round, but Martha was alive, and was mere feet away-

_"Sectumsempra!"_

The professor sidestepped the spell with a smile that did not reach her eyes-

"Idiots! Idiots!" Dolohov was screaming, fury blotching his white face. "A boy and a teacher! Fools! _Letum Forca!_

The earth gave a heave, sending Albus staggering sideways. A maw opened in the mud under Martha's feet; one foot sank out of sight, whilst the other kicked the air. The ground reached upwards, sucking the free foot into the morass. The Death Eaters circled and surged-

Albus raised the wand, but a sudden disturbance passed over Martha's skin, like a ripple moving across water. Her blank face was distorting, bending out of shape - her spine was lengthening, the shoulders broadening- The spell? His mind raced. No, no known incantation… The realisation froze him where he was. _Polyjuice. _Unforeseen! The Read who had gone on leave was not the same one who had returned. The situation suddenly seemed blindingly obvious; her behaviour had been both out of character and erratic…

The Death Eaters halted. Dolohov narrowed his eyes, and even Mulciber stilled in the grip of the yew. Martha's melting jaw clamped. Her voice slurred as it came out.

"Immpressive. It's nice to shee you're up to speed."

The words made no sense, but Albus was too mesmerised by the changing features to care. The small, upturned nose was becoming hooked and more prominent. The skin paled, and then tightened over a skull which was altering to become sharper. Lines cut more deeply. The eyes blackened, hooded by thickening lids, and the brown curls were also darkened, becoming grey-streaked black locks which hung lankly past the owner's ears...

Brian's knees buckled. His callow face seemed to collapse with his body.

Severus Snape watched.

**A/N: Bleh. **


	28. His Boy

**A/N: Thank you all reviewers! A special thanks to ImSoMMAD, Skite, Quimera16, saiyanwizardgurl and Gosuto (Ketseki in disguise?) for sticking with me. Another special thanks to Pol, whose encouraging words lift me up and keep me writing, and Laura, who was the one to extract the promise of a chapter this weekend. **

**Enjoy, though I do believe I reached my high point round _Adult Secrets._ **

* * *

Numbness flooded him. 

Disbelieving, he ran his eyes over the hooked nose and arched brows, saw the black gaze turn towards him, saw the features twitch—

_Severus. _

He was different, he realised, distantly. The revelation brought up an image of the warped visage of Tom Riddle, drenched in evil, but the difference was not that, at least outwardly. The face was thinner, the flesh stretched over the bones, and lines gathered under the eyes. Grey was shot through the sable locks. How many years had it been? Nearly twenty; the man before him was in his fifties, gaunt and worn. He had a sudden mental image of himself in his office, meeting this Severus, being distressed by the unhealthy pallor—

There was a thump as Dolohov fell to his knees, and then an echo as others followed suit.

"Lord!"

The word winded him, sent vomit crawling up his throat. Another Albus was pitching off another Astronomy Tower, and a younger Snape was lit green by a hovering Dark Mark, only the man was now a Lord—

—Who was staring at him, transfixed by the life he had ended—

_He knew! _

"Lord!" Dolohov was pale with excitement. "Lord, finally you have blessed us! May I ask—?"

Snape blinked, and looked haughtily at his Lieutenant, before dispelling the earth from his legs. Albus closed his eyes; in a second the voice would come, the voice that had once reported to him or snapped or dripped with sarcasm, his boy's voice—

"Why I appeared as I did? I would have expected any numbskull to work it out, Dolohov. I felt a test was in order—one which you responded adequately to. But there are less present here than I had been given reason to believe."

The Death Eaters shuddered. Their leader performed an odd slithering movement to Snape's feet, as though wanting to kiss the hem of his robes. "Lord, we felt our few numbers would be better able to penetrate the Hogwarts Express. The greater part of our number are massing in the South—"

"And yet they are tardy in attending my return. Idiots! But you have done well. I see you have the boy."

Albus flinched. Snape's eyes bored into him, and a brief disturbance rippled their depths. He wondered vaguely if Brian's death would be because of Voldemort's, or if this was the final retribution against James, or whether it was because of he, the old man, who had not truly died in the first attempt, whose secret had been penetrated—

"_Potter._"

The name was spat, like a curse. He could not meet the gaze of his murderer; instead he looked down, whilst the cold voice continued.

"How unspeakably tedious are the memories that come to mind. Your father was just as arrogant, and his fame was just as undeserved. But doubtless you have your own little wretched mythology about him, our as-yet absent _celebrity_ guest tonight. Doubtless you have ridiculous notions about good and evil, the ideas of Muggle-lovers and impostors. Are you aware of why you are here, Potter?"

The earth blurred beneath him, and he made no answer. Snape's words were irrelevant and nonsensical; he _knew, _and yet had given no sign. Why? Albus's heart thumped. The rant wasn't about Brian, or even about Harry, but about James—and that made no sense at all; Snape as Martha had seen that his mind wasn't a Potter's—

"I shall tell you, as I do not think too highly of the Potter grey matter. Your precious father could barely string two words together when he was at school, but now he's the darling of the nation—fame isn't everything. You are here because I find it symbolically appropriate to have you here. Here is where your witless predecessor helped the old Dark Lord return to full strength, and here is where your own impaired existence will end as a fitting vengeance for his fall. Our _celebrity_ will join us in time for his own _richly deserved_ death. It is a shame there are so few here to witness this historic moment."

Albus sensed the Death Eaters bustle awkwardly. A prickle of fear for Harry penetrated the numbness. _Richly deserved death… _Something balled inside him, and there came a memory—

_Harry was glaring at him, eyes blazing, voice shaking with badly suppressed rage. "Professor… how can you be _sure _that Snape's on our side?"_

_He barely heard the words; he only saw the prejudice that shaped them. Would Harry never grow beyond the views of James? Perhaps if he spoke of Severus's feelings for Lily…? No, it was hardly appropriate. Instead, he let the iron-clad certainty speak for him._

_ "I am sure. I trust Severus Snape completely."_

He looked up as though through a red haze. Snape was still talking, but the words had passed from the irrelevant into the incomprehensible; they reached his ears as disjointed syllables. A body was still falling, a Dark Mark stained the sky, Godric's Hollow was a blast of emerald death—the white face smirked—_this, this _was the abomination he had protected… The pain exploded.

"_Merlin forgive me…"_

Snape stopped, mid-speech. The thin lips twisted. Another spasm—

—He felt himself lose control, felt the force inside him boil and erupt, and did not care—

"…_For ever trusting you!"_

His agony rushed outwards, engulfing the men; he saw them stagger, as if from a great distance. The yew burst into flames, and the sky was purpled, bruised with his anger, a white, exploding nucleus. A gravestone went flying, torn out of the earth. For a second his muscles locked, stiffened with magic, his body a channel for something primal and uncontrollable. The ground ruptured; something white and cold went shooting into the air. The trapped Mulciber was shrieking, but he was up, pointing his wand, trembling, and Snape was frozen, narrow face stiff and surprised—the fury was above language; he spluttered, could only express one word to convey it all—

"_LILY!"_

Snape's head snapped back, as though a blow had been struck. Mulciber's screams reached a peak, and the gravestones were cracking—

Dolohov pitched himself forward. "_Avada Keda—"_

"_STUPEFY!"_

Snape's Lieutenant collapsed, but it was Snape who was standing over him. There was one paralysed second in which nothing made any sense; the Death Eaters looked at their Lord, aghast—

The ex-Potions Master whirled and cast another Stunner. One wizard fell to the ground, and then another. The Death Eaters roared in confusion; one ran at Albus, wand outstretched, grin stretched into madness—

"Crucio!"

He was on the ground, whimpering, but nothing mattered. _Severus, Severus, Severus… _Severus or Snape? He could not decide; the man-child had killed him and then put out a hand—but that was another life. Brian Potter, killed for Harry, killed for James, killed for Lily…

"Petrificus Totalus!"

The pain ended, abruptly. A pair of concerned black eyes were sinking towards him.

"Severus…" The name escaped him with a gasp. Snape twisted his head away and then was pulling him up, long fingers curled around Brian's arm—

"_Avada Kedavra!"_

There was a green flash, and another Death Eater was keeling over, wand still held to his temple in a broken ecstasy. One of the others had turned back and was trying to free the burning Mulciber from the tree, but there was no more time to look; Snape was dragging him into the shadows, towards the crumbled wall of the graveyard. He ran mechanically, hating and loving the spidery hand clasped round his flesh. The shouts of the Death Eaters were fading. He was vaulting over the wall, surrounded by tangled branches…

They ran for what seemed an interminable amount of time. Snape was limping slightly, but moved like an animal returned to its natural habitat, narrow gaze sweeping from right to left and back again. Albus noticed the landscape in brief snapshots, as if in a dream: the dark fingers of the trees scraping the sky, the cold circle of a raindrop. Why were they running? From Voldemort, perhaps?

Perhaps Snape wanted to kill him alone, not as Brian but as the ex-Headmaster…

The thought had him halting, wrenching himself out of Snape's grasp. His guts seemed to bubble with lava; the fury was back, inhabiting him, flaming up to the pores—

Something in his expression had shown it; his former spy was frozen again, face pale and slack. _Traitor. _Fire shot through him. _Abomination. _He raised his wand, but Snape was already kneeling, and the mask was dropped; the man at his feet had covered his eyes with his hands—

_Avada Kedavra. _

Was that what he wanted?

His wand was at Snape's throat. His boy's heartbeat could be felt along the wood—but his pseudo-son had died, or had never existed in the first place. _Richly deserved death…_His hand shook.

"Why?"

The question was like a child's. His man-child moaned and rocked on his knees, and the mouth between the clawed hands was open, also like a child's—

"_Why?!"_

The wand fell from his hand; it was inadequate, unable to convey anything of the torment of the previous two decades. The vision of Minerva hit him, frail and impotent, standing at a white tomb, tears scouring the lines. Suddenly he was lashing out, not with magic or with words, but with his fists, pounding into the hooked nose, and falling against his boy, thumping the slumped shoulders impotently—

"Headmaster!"

Snape's voice came from very far away. He was still punching, all the time resting against the bony ribcage, feeling another heart race. Snape needed to know, needed to feel what he had felt, needed to experience some portion of it all—needed to tell him what he had done with Severus, and _why_… He had opened the door, _the _door of that immortal room…

A sob burst out of him. His whole weight was against the body before him now, and a voice was saying something, over and over again, and it didn't sound like the voice of a smug Potions Master but of someone else… Darkness began to close about him, but it wasn't oblivion, but some vast mountain of knowledge, the blackness of love—

"My boy," he wept. "_I forgive you, I forgive you…"_

They fell down together, into the leaves.

* * *

This Dark Lord trembled, and looked at him with an agonised expression, bloodied nose dripping unrestrainedly onto his robes. The obsidian eyes were pits, brimmed with pain. Murderer and murdered held each other, speechless in a united grief. The man lay limply, with a sense of inexpressible weariness, as though the marring of his face had continued beyond the physical surface. The boy stared intensely, tears unnoticed, glasses askew, look one of empathetic distress, his dislodged medallion providing an object for the man's gaze. The only force between them was that of their clasping hands.

* * *

"HARRY!" 

Tonks's bellow had him bursting from his office, wand out, _Daily Prophet _floating irreverently to the floor. Outside the Chief's office, the Auror cubicles were a sea of heads, poking out in wariness and curiosity. The comparative stillness of the surroundings made Tonks's movement along the aisle all the more alarming; she was tearing along the aisle, a note crumpled in one fist.

"Harry—it's the Hogwarts Express! It's been attacked!"

The blood drained from him, so that the Auror Headquarters spun. _Brian. _An image came to him, of Brian's serious face lit by a candle-flame, blue eyes glittering as he spoke beyond his years. Brian, his son, his little Dumbledore. He heard himself giving orders and wondered how he was even speaking, and why he was doing so instead of moving—

"Someone contact the Minister! I want everyone except reserve forces out with me—any idea of numbers?"

They were moving at last, and the shock had become fear; his stride was growing longer, leaving the others behind. Higgins was barrelling from his cubicle, knocking things over, and Tonks was running, a piece of parchment in hand—

"Any from five to fifteen—we were alerted by the students, who gave conflicting numbers depending on where they were—"

They were out of Headquarters, heading down excruciating corridors, a flurry of robes and extended wands. "Where are they?"

"The Scottish border. Exact whereabouts vague—"

"Where's the nearest outpost?"

"Tweed Valley, along a river—I suggest that we Floo there rather than Apparate; we don't want to end up in the middle of them—"

The ability to speak left him; he was crowding into the lift, breathless. A mental Brian had already died in the time it had taken to leave Headquarters. Tonks smiled tensely at him, but his own face seemed to be made of lead. Higgins looked frightened, but there was no encouragement he could give other than to stand rigidly, blind eyes fixed on a flock of purple memos.

_Ginny. _

He blinked, and in that blink saw a weeping mother, cradling her remaining son. He swallowed. Should he tell Ginny, somehow get word…? No, he would know whatever there was to know first, without worrying her—

They were in the Atrium, racing past the irritating statue of himself, heading towards the outgoing Floo fires. For once he did not care about the sickening sensation of the Floo; he was going towards his son—

The Auror outpost was nothing more than a shack, and a single sleeping wizard, Firewhiskey in hand, slumped over a desk. Shacklebolt made at face but Harry was past the slumbering guard and outside, into an icy blackness. The wind cut his face. The dark shapes of rolling hills confronted him; the Hogwarts Express was nowhere in sight. His heart squeezed, and he turned towards the crowd of alarmed faces. Fear made him bark.

"Split up! I want Shacklebolt heading ten to the East, and Tonks taking ten to the West. I'll take the rest North. Wands out, detecting Muggle-Repelling Charms! If one group finds the train then they are to get messages to the others via Patronus! Understand? Right! Higgins, you're with me! Yaxley, Ireland, Queensby…"

The night was all around them, and there was no sound except the swish of cloaks. The Aurors flicked their eyes back and forth, from each other to their stiff-legged Chief and back again. He sped ahead, walking awkwardly, as though restraining the urge to run. Beside him, invisible to the other Aurors, staggered an auburn-haired boy, half-moon spectacles spotted with his own blood, limbs jerking to the grotesque dance of the Cruciatus Curse, and phoenix nowhere in sight.

* * *

He had never believed the ridiculous Sybil Trelawney's claptrap about dreams, particularly recurring ones. Yet the past twenty years— 

The ramparts were lit green from the Dark Mark. He had arrived just in time to hear Alecto, features twisted with rage, shout something at a figure standing paralysed next to a snarling Fenrir. Malfoy. He saw it all, in a matter of seconds, the ravening Death Eaters, the grey-faced Malfoy, and emptiness where Potter should have been—but most of all he saw the Headmaster slumped against the wall, shocking in his weakness, blue eyes lit suddenly with hope—

"We've got a problem, Snape," Amycus was saying. "The boy doesn't seem able—"

"Severus…"

Dumbledore's voice was soft. The sapphire gaze lanced him; he pushed the Malfoy boy out of the way. Somewhere far away, his other self was watching, shouting at him, horrified beyond belief, but he was mechanical, invulnerable…

"Severus… please…"

The words were branded into him. All at once his distant self and the Severus on the Tower were one; he was running past Dumbledore, dropping his wand.

The wind made his robes billow as he leapt over the battlements.

* * *

The search continued. 

Perhaps an hour had passed, perhaps five; Harry no longer knew. The world was a nightmare of hills and gullies, a pointless monument to some abstract force of nature that cared nothing for Brian nor the cold that knifed easily through their robes, seeping to the bone. His wand-hand had gone numb, and there was a detached quality to his movements; he was not there, traversing endless valleys, weary eyes sweeping the landscape, but submerged in Brian—Brian the baby, Brian the toddler, Brian the child. He had a sudden vision of his son's knobbly knees. How many other sons were on the train? He cared only for one; this was the selfishness of anguished fatherhood. The other Aurors were without personalities or emotions of their own—instead they were reduced to mere presences, unhelpful in that none of them were Brian.

There was a hiss, and one of the shapes beside him halted.

"Chief," came Higgins's voice.

There was no need to say anything; his wand was also thrumming. Coming back to himself, he nodded and pressed onwards. For a few minutes nothing happened. Then there was a clonk.

He stopped. The lit wand hovered near Higgins's mud-stained boot, revealing a bar of iron. They had found the railway, but still there was no train. He stood, mesmerised by the play of light over a point…

"Sir," said someone, quietly.

"I know," he croaked. "The railway."

"Sir…" the voice said again. He looked up, and realised that the silence had deepened. The Aurors were standing, stock-still, heads aimed in one direction. Slowly, he rose his gaze above the horizon.

The Dark Mark hung like an emerald star, the only bright point in an ebony sky. Even from the distance—perhaps of about six miles—the snake writhed visibly, hissing and spitting from its deathly lair. Harry felt nothing; the cold simply bit deeper. He could feel the gaze of the other Aurors on him, and was about to say something suitably commanding, when something shining and silver came flying out of the nearby copse.

He half expected it to be Brian's ghost, come to accuse him of being too late, but it was soon apparent that the apparition was a Patronus, in the form of a fox. The creature circled them and then pointed its brush in the direction of the Dark Mark, before vanishing. The absurdity of it brought him back slightly; he snorted.

"Bloody useful, after we've seen that. Come on."

They moved forwards with greater speed, and purpose. The consciousness of an invisible clock ticking was intolerable, and Harry broke into a sprint as the red jet of a Stunner shot up beneath the Dark Mark. He did not, _could _not think about Brian or any other unimaginable dead child; there was only the creak of frozen joints and the cut of his breath in his throat. The ground tilted upwards, and they reached the crest of a hill.

The Hogwarts Express sat still upon its tracks, gleaming darkly in the light of the symbol above. A black figure by its front Disapparated with a sharp crack, and the Chief Auror noticed that the front of the train was crumpled, as though it had hit an invisible wall. Several bodies were heaped on the earth beside the tracks, and beyond a huge crowd of students could be seen, gathered in clumps and surrounded by several prowling Aurors. The fight, if there had been one, was over.

Tonks was visible by train's front, wand aimed at the pile of bodies. Harry headed towards her, throat tight.

"Harry! It's over—there were only six of them, and two Disapparated, but we caught three and killed one—"

He halted by the bodies, and looked down. The Death Eaters had been stripped of their masks, and two of them were instantly recognisable as having been on search warrants by the Ministry. It didn't matter. He managed a cursory nod before heading in the direction of the students, away from the nonsensical shouts of Tonks—

_Brian. _

Meaningless, frightened faces turned towards him. He was wading through people, all of them irrelevant—

A flash of red caught his eyes. He turned hopefully, but it was Eric Weasley, not Brian. Yet surely Eric would know where he was? He pushed past a shrinking group of Fourth-Years, noticing vaguely that Eric was slumped down on the ground, back against a tree. Better still, Auror Macmillan was standing right beside him, patting the boy on the shoulder, and if he was in charge of the students then surely…

He reached the tree in time to see Macmillan bite his lip and Eric surge upwards, tear-stained, the colour of sour milk, eyes bloodshot, staggering to retch emptily into the grass—

Harry swayed. A thousand sons revolved around him, shooting upwards into the stars. _My boy. _Tonk's hand fell on his shoulder, and she was speaking, but he could hear nothing but Brian's laughter at Eric's face as he opened his present at the Burrow…

"Harry, _Harry!" _Her hair was grey, and curling. "Stop it, he _could_ still be alive—"

He looked blankly at her. Over her shoulder he could see Higgins, looking miserable and confused, and beyond that Macmillan, mouth a warped line of sympathy… He hated them, all of them. He was still swaying like a drunk, unable to understand.

"Harry, he wasn't killed, he was taken! Eric saw him being taken away in the full Body Bind, but he was alive! Of course he's mucked up over that but it was another classmate who was slain! Harry, _please_—"

"There's a letter for you," Macmillan broke in, holding up a sealed parchment. "It arrived at headquarters about a quarter of an hour ago—Richards forwarded it, but his owl could not find you… We didn't open it… We were worried…"

…_So let the father read the worrying news for himself, then? _He let out a snort of laughter, but Tonks's grip tightened and she looked more alarmed than ever. He almost fell over when taking the parchment from the Auror, and he ripped it open with fingers that were utterly numb… Lines of cramped script stared up at him. He had to blink; the parchment was beginning to blur, and it was all ridiculous, for he was still Chief Auror, still acting as though he had not lost a son…

_Potter,_

_We have your son in our hands. Unless you arrive alone to Little Hangleton graveyard by midnight, he will be killed. Should you attempt to bring a force of Aurors, he will be killed._

_In the name of Lord Snape. _

Beneath the last sentence was a dark red spot. Blood.

Harry's fingers crumpled the parchment. Hatred, such as he had never known before, coursed through him. He could see it now—a laughing Snape, wand digging into Brian's neck… Was that his son's blood? Hope and horror warred equally inside him; Brian was alive, but for how long? Purple spots flew in front of his eyes. _In the name of Lord Snape. _

"What time is it?" he cried wildly.

"Half past eleven," said Tonks, snatching the letter and flicking her eyes over it. She looked up, shocked. "You're not going alone, are you?"

"It's a trap." He clenched his fists. "He was taken to lure me to them."

"They don't seriously expect you to go alone!"

"Professor!"

Higgins was blinking at a robed figure darting through the crowd. The Hogwarts Headmistress was half running towards them, stick held impatiently off the ground, as though she had only grabbed it out of habit. Her sharp eyes were darting from Harry to the crowd and back again, as though she was looking for someone. Her strained face pointed itself at Harry.

"Mr Potter, what precisely—"

Tonks thrust the letter at her without protest. She read it, and then looked up, ashen. To Harry's vague, anxious surprise, her hand went immediately to her heart, as though Brian's capture had hurt her personally.

"Right. I'm coming with you."

Harry exploded. "There's no time! Tonks, I'll take my group, but some back-up will be useful—"

"Mr Potter—"

"_No," _he said roughly. "If Shacklebolt—"

"I believe I have a duty towards my students, Mr Potter."

"And I have a duty to ensure your safety! You are _not _coming with us; your duty to your students is to arrange transport—"

The nostrils flared. "Already arranged! The thestral carriages are on their way! And I do not appreciate being lectured on my duty by a former student!"

Harry looked at her, incensed. Time was running out. Brian was quite possibly being tortured whilst they stood and talked. He would be another Amos Diggery, collapsed over a fallen body. The Headmistress looked set to argue herself blue in the face; it would save time to give in.

"Very well! Just make sure you remain with the Aurors. Now—"

He paused, momentarily crippled by a dark, ripping feeling of despair, and then threw himself into organisation. Brian's corpse skittered away, into the gorse. The students looked on as the Aurors began to run to and fro, shouting urgently. _Brian! _Eric's head was in his hands, but the image was blocked, scrubbed out by the need for plans and strategies. Several hundred uncaring people were standing back. Shacklebolt was gesturing ferociously, and Higgins was like a string drawn taut between two hands. He was everywhere, seeing Brian out of the corners of his vision.

He did not notice the Headmistress fall back, and fumble for a handkerchief as her eyes overflowed.

* * *

They did not speak for a long time. A new lump was constricting Albus's breathing, and Severus's eyes were distant, unfocussed, as though looking at something beyond the dark clearing. His thinness struck the ex-Headmaster anew; the man beneath him had a body that was insubstantial except for several sharp points, and the black robes swamped him, hanging limply off the curled, trembling limbs. The winter air had at last penetrated Brian's school-robes, but concepts such as temperature and frostbite seemed very far away and immaterial. At last, Severus shifted slightly, and spoke in a hoarse whisper, eyes avoiding his. 

"Why have you not summoned the Aurors?"

He had to swallow several times before he could reply. "Would you like me to?"

His man-child looked pensively up at him. "Perhaps it would be best." The black gaze sharpened. "I murdered you."

There was a pause. "Yes. But I have forgiven you." _Because I need to. Because I love you. _

"I expected you to kill me," he said softly.

Albus sighed. "Severus, do you really know so little about me?"

"Yes. You should have realised that some shadows are too dark to comprehend the light."

He cupped the pointed chin and tilted the eyes up towards him. "Severus, _why?"_

The ex-Potions Master gave a twisted smile, gruesome in its distortion. "I was a Slytherin. I felt side-lined and power-hungry. I placed too high a value on my own wretched life. I did something which will damn me forever. I have no excuses, nothing that could possibly justify my actions. You should—"

Albus placed a finger over his lips, and stared into the stricken features, heart distended. _My poor lost boy. _The sadness remained, stabbing like a distant malicious needle, but the anger was entirely gone. A picture of the man before him flashed in his mind's eye, but well-fed, happy, guiltless. Could he remember a time when Severus had smiled sincerely? The reality of the Tower was like a nightmare, one that faded as the day drew on.

"My boy," he said aloud.

Severus's face gave another uncontrollable twitch. "You're _insane."_

"Perhaps," he admitted. "Perhaps I am. Perhaps we fools who love are all insane."

The heavy lids fell. The silence returned, and Albus found himself wishing there would never be any need to break it, but it was unlikely that the Aurors would be ignorant for long. He seized Severus's cold fingers.

"What have you done with the original Martha Read?"

Eyes still closed, his ex-Potions Master shrugged. "I was looking for a guise to penetrate Hogwarts with, and it was a matter of ease to shadow her on her leave. It soon became apparent that she planned not to return, and I simply intercepted her resignation. I believe she is currently in Switzerland."

"Why did you need to penetrate Hogwarts?"

He did not want to ask, did not want to hear the Lord again, but he had forgiven him already; whatever the reason, it was forgivable—

"To guard you. Or Mr Potter, at least."

His grip on Severus's fingers eased. "Why?"

"You had not followed my instructions to alert your father."

Albus sat up. "_You _sent those notes? About Jonathan Blaine?"

"Yes. The wretched brat had announced his plans to attack you by a message sent by the Slytherin ghost. At the time I was concealed in the Forbidden Forest, so the ghost reached me easily. I have also sent multiple warnings to the Aurors and to your body's father. The Baron also gave me my first suspicion as to your true identity—though it was in the library when the first hint was given. You looked into my mind, and I felt as though your touch was familiar…"

Albus's mind was racing. Yes, the mind of Martha Read had felt known to him, as though he had explored it before. He remembered the Slytherin ghost's promise distractedly, with some alarm: did the Baron disregard his promise and go around announcing to all who seemed interested? His thoughts whirled. Lord Snape was in the graveyard again, talking about putting Harry to death. Yet this was the same man who had sent letters warning Harry and his son of danger…

"Two things, Severus. Firstly, you have not yet answered my initial question, as to why you felt the need to guard my persona at all. Secondly, I admit to finding it difficult to reconcile Brian's guardian angel with the Lord who threatened me before."

His companion's eyes snapped open, agonised. "I was your spy! I fooled even you! Did you not think, Headmaster, that I could act? I was forced to stand there and bluster as my plan to rescue you had already gone wrong. I had had several vague letters from Dolohov suggesting that something was happening, so I kept watch on the platform—but I saw nothing. As soon as I worked out what had happened, I Apparated to the graveyard and attacked. Obviously, I failed, and had to invent some nonsense about testing their abilities! As for why I felt the need to defend you…" He stopped, as though unable to continue.

"Repentence?" Albus said softly.

Severus nodded, stiffly. The ex-Headmaster gave him a small smile, and squeezed his hand.

"It is much appreciated."

He received a sardonic chuckle in reply. It was entirely mirthless, and grated on his ears unpleasantly, but he suddenly felt an inner buoyancy, a beatific bliss. His words tumbled over one another.

"So Lord Snape never existed?"

"No, Headmaster. And I promise you he never will exist. A promise from me is worth less than the muck on your shoes, but perhaps an Unbreakable Vow—"

"No. I will rely on my trust."

The final word had Severus looking at him wildly, and surging upwards, wand in hand. An odd noise sounded, halfway between a snigger and a groan. The wood spun, and rested against the holder's neck. Albus lurched to his feet in horror, but Severus was backing away, obsidian orbs blazing—

"IF YOU WILL NOT DO IT THEN I WILL DO IT MYSELF! IF THE ONE HAND THAT COULD SET ME FREE FAILS TO STRIKE—!"

He was roaring, spit flying from his mouth, lank hair dishevelled. The wand quivered on its target, waiting to deal its second death. Albus stood, feeling the storm rock him, terror drying his throat, but the desperate father was not needed now—it was the calm Headmaster, who would stand and dissuade—

His voice came out remarkably serene. "You are in pain, and we all do rash things when we are in pain. But there can be no solution if we flee from it. Severus, if you are guilty of an evil crime then you are also guilty of a number of good deeds since—"

One of Severus's eyelids twitched. "YOU THINK THAT'S ENOUGH?"

"Yes," he said simply. "I do. I recall a time when you would not have done anything for Harry that was not required by the War effort, and yet here you are, having rescued his son and guarded him personally for a number of months. That son's identity is irrelevant; what matters is that fact that _you _have done this, that _you _have put aside your hatred…"

"Only for you," the man before him mumbled, still shuddering. "Justice—"

"Ah, justice. And who decides what justice is, hm? Is it not the victims of crimes? Which would mean more, Severus? For a court to judge you and condemn you to life in Azkaban? Your own appalled sense of guilt to condemn you to death? Or for me to forgive you, for what was done to me?"

The wand pressed more deeply. "I broke—"

"—An old man's heart. I do not deny it. You broke my trust as well. You forgot Lily. These things are unfortunately true. Yet are our lives to be defined by single acts? If we see them for what they truly are, and then actively repent… Perhaps that argument does not satisfy you? What of this then, that the punishment has already been inflicted—you have been an outcast, persecuted by your own memory?"

"I DON'T—I don't want to remember!"

No great mental leap was needed to make the connection with Harry in his office, raving and throwing ornaments. Hadn't the Boy-Who-Lived stood similarly, trembling on the brink, trying to deny the undeniable? That had been his fault then, and he felt obscurely that it was his fault now. He took a step towards his former spy.

"Severus—"

The man leapt backwards. He seemed beyond speech now, eyes blank and staring. Somewhere, another Severus had already made the dive off the precipice. Perhaps it had even happened twenty years before, and the world they inhabited now was a delayed reflection, a slow echo. He took another step.

"Avada—"

The arguments before had been wasted; he let the two predetermined words slide out of him—

"Severus, please."

Silence. Then a dissolving, an unexpected crumpling, as though a bar of metal was buckling.

The wand fell to the ground. He kept the calm expression pasted on, even as the man-child sank down after it, winded. Some part of him _was _the mask, serene and utterly unruffled, even a twig snapped nearby. Another part was down on the ground with Severus, locked in empathy. His love was a bubble, trapped in his throat. Severus and Minerva: both had suffered for him, all circumstances aside. He saw the blood down Severus's front with a quick tightening of his windpipe. He was still and calm, even as a sudden crash sounded in the undergrowth—

"STUPEFY!"

The red bolt lifted his boy off the ground, stick limbs jerking like a dying spider's. Still frozen, he went sailing with him into the nettles—

_Minerva. _

He saw her first of all, careering him towards him out of the trees, lips parted. The green eyes locked on his, gaze sharp and worried. He tried to express something just by looking, but Harry moved between them, a flurry of robes and extended hands, which seized him and crushed him against the Auror's seal—

"Brian!"

Tonks had barrelled out of the bushes behind them, followed by a host of other Aurors, wands all trained on the limp body at his feet. Harry's robes had enclosed him like a bat's wings, and the trembling frame beneath them smelt of sweat, and the thick tang of blood—

The scarred forehead next to him was streaked with scarlet. "Dad!"

"You're all right?" Harry's face was like a ghost's. "You're not hurt—"

He touched the blood across the scar with the tip of one finger. Hands were running down him and through his hair, tapping and savouring. Over his 'father's' shoulder, he could see Minerva, rigid and staring at the black form below him—

"Snape didn't hurt you?" The bolting eyes rolled downwards. The trembling became violent, a paroxysm of rage. Albus felt it numbly, torn between the blood and Severus.

"Dad—"

"Azkaban," snarled the Chief Auror. "At last, where he deserves—"

The other Aurors were circling the body. Shacklebolt aimed a kick that sent the man-child rolling over, to bare the battered nose—

"Stop—he's changed, he mustn't go to Azkaban—"

Minerva gave him a look of disbelief. Why was he arguing? He went on, fired with urgency, twelve-year-old words against twenty-year-old memories.

"He's good now—"

Harry was ignoring him, still holding him to his chest with one hand. The other pointed a wand, and gave a quick, commanding gesture. Severus was yanked off the ground, a puppet controlled by a furious master. His nose dripped blood down the front of his robes. Harry gave a savage grin, and with it, a small exhalation that smelt of terror.

"Evinxi!"

There was a silver glimmer, and then manacles materialised about the ex-Potions Master's wrists. Albus found himself struggling free of Harry's grip, thumping at another set of shoulders, even though some detached corner of his mind knew that none of Brian's words would make the slightest bit of difference. Harry's fear was tainting the air—

"Dad, he mustn't go Azkaban, he saved me, he rescued me from the Death Eaters—and he's been sending me notes, warning me of everything—Jonathan Blaine—"

Harry's eyes looked blindly at him. "He's a _traitor."_

A spasm passed down the Chief Auror's body. He held onto Brian as though he was about to be ripped out of his arms. Albus's eyes pricked.

"Harry, _please." _

The other Aurors were watching, transfixed between the prisoner and the boy. Minerva had lowered her gaze to the ground, as if stricken by some sudden realisation.

"He killed Dumbledore," said Harry, blood trickling down his face.

_He killed Dumbledore. _He had not had the time to formulate any ideas about what Harry might say, but he would not have expected that. Perhaps _he betrayed the Light, _or _he was a Death-Eater. _Not that. _My poor boy. _For a moment he could not speak.

"Dumbledore would want you to show mercy," he said at last.

Harry bowed his head. "Dumbledore was wrong about Snape. And he was killed before you were born." He swallowed, and looked up, searching Brian's face. "He's been talking to you, hasn't he? Brian, he can make people believe what he wants—"

"He sent those notes! He got me away from Dolohov!"

Harry gave a sharp jerk of the head. "We can't know how his mind works!"

Albus opened his mouth to say more, but one look at the face above him made him close it again. There was nothing more to be said. The Chief Auror began to bark more orders, and his subordinates gathered themselves into formation. Harry made no sign that he was to let go of Brian, and he allowed himself to be half-carried through the trees, with Severus hovering along after them. They moved briskly, back in the direction of the graveyard.

The ex-Headmaster laid his chin on Harry's shoulder, and felt the accompanying heartbeat reverberate through him. Slowly, he met Minerva's eyes. He looked away, unable to meet the emotion he saw in them.

Pity.

The Astronomy Tower was gone.

**A/N: Notice something different about that chapter? You are experiencing the Apocalypticat Em Dash Revolution. This is a historic moment. Rest In Peace, hyphen.**


	29. The Third War

**A/N: Yes, I'm ALIVE! I can't forgive myself for abandoning you all for so long! All I can say is that my life imploded a few months back (think a serious attack of depression, a dumped boyfriend and parental chaos) and when I finally got back on my feet I was confronted not only by multiple events that barely gave me the time to sit down, but also by the worst writer's block yet! **

**I now write this fic after the release of book seven (which left me stunned, and even more in the thrall of Dumbles than before—the one I've written is comparatively stupid... I say no more)! Obviously this fic is now AU. I hope anybody still reading will forgive me for proceeding with my plot as though book seven hadn't happened, as too much is changed by it. I do hope some still read, despite the unforgiveable time I left you for. Hopefully updates will be quicker from now on, now that my passion is back!  
**

**Enjoy, if you're still here! A shorter chapter, I'm afraid, but next one will be longer!  
**

* * *

"You are certain that that was what happened?" 

"Yes."

The Chief Auror's hands clenched beneath the desk. The interrogator, a grey-eyed official whose nose was as sharp as his manner, flicked a glance towards him. Harry schooled his features into neutrality and shared a look with Shacklebolt, who was standing in a corner, face just visible in the dimness. Brian's own small hands were folded in his lap, and his gaze was solidly on the official, who blinked, as though used to the evasive rather than the direct. The interrogation chamber was darkness focussed around a single floating light, which lent a grey intensity to the man and the boy sitting either side of the desk, profiled faces pointing towards each other in quiet opposition.

Harry swallowed, holding in his anger with the grip of his jaw. This was not like the first interview, which had been in a warm, comfortable room with Tonks's encouraging face hovering over an unobtrusive notepad. Merlin knew that that had been enough for any boy to bear, and normally that would have been enough. Yet that was not enough for the Ministry. Nor was it sufficient for the ministries of other countries, who knew and cared nothing about Brian—but because _Snape _was involved, _of course_ he was _essential…_

He leant to left slightly, in order to see his son's face, and felt a quick, swelling burst of pride. Not a trace of fear could be seen in the boy's expression, only a solid, resigned certainty. He was calm, coherent, grave and immovable behind his spectacles, as if the interrogation was no more than an essay or some sort of oral exam. Harry saw again the vision of Brian sat behind a table, talking about justice. What had he thought, when the news had come? _His little Dumbledore._ A baffled kind of admiration swept over him; the impression was not a one-off but a sustained one, continued throughout the aftermath of it all. His son had narrated Cal's death in the same way the Headmaster had spoken about Cedric's.

"_He looks at me just as how old Dumbledore used to do so too… I'm not surprised the phoenix chose to stay with him. You watch him, keep him close."_

The more he looked, the more Ollivander seemed justified. Dumbledore's expressions were suddenly apparent in younger features: the quirk of any eyebrow here, a smile there. Perhaps he only saw it because Ollivander had mentioned it, but the similarity was startling.

As for keeping Brian close, that was easier said than done.

Brian's testimony would have to be regurgitated in front of a dozen different people before it would be accepted. He had problems accepting it himself; when he had heard Brian's words he had not absorbed them—the idea that Snape had sent warnings was beyond ludicrous, it was almost offensive. As for the claim that Snape had moved into Hogwarts to protect his son… Stupid. Ridiculous.

Two weeks passed, a mess of interviews and parental concern. The third Auror interview was endured by Harry with bad grace, and the first approach by the _Daily Prophet _was rebuffed sharply. Fifteen-year-old Harry in a courtroom had been bad enough; twelve-year-old Brian being set for the courtroom as well as the attentions of interrogators and reporters was unacceptable. Harry watched his son, and held him. All attempts to resist ruffling Brian's hair and wandering into his room failed, and luckily Brian seemed to submit to the extra attention without much objection.

More worrying was the strange glint that came into Brian's eyes whenever Snape was mentioned. The change in his son was hard to formulate even in his mind; to all appearances the experience had simply made Brian even quieter, more contemplative—an effect that could be expected in any twelve-year-old who had been captured by a suspected Dark Lord and watched a friend perish in front of his eyes. Yet there was more than that, for whilst Brian predictably turned pale at the name of the ex-Potions Master, there was also new softness about him, an odd 'deep' expression that played around his mouth. This was another of Brian's 'adult expressions,' though what it conveyed was a mystery.

Harry had seen it before, during his son's startling request to see the Headmistress in hospital: a strange, painful look of… affection? He had dismissed the thought then and dismissed it now. Yet… _"Stop—he's changed, he mustn't go to Azkaban…" _He had spoken with him, he had been alone with him, he had believed something about him… The Chief Auror's stomach rolled. But Brian did not have the mad faith of the imprisoned Blaine, the rolling eyes of fanaticism—

_"Harry, please."_

_Harry… _That bothered him. He was 'Dad,' not Harry.

He suddenly found himself frightened of Brian's solitude. He had never been bothered before by the fact that his son spent more time with heavy books than with his family—after all; there was that dash of brilliance about him, one which would naturally be fed by books. Now that same dash of brilliance abruptly seemed a danger, fuelling the obscure sense of Brian being wrenched out of his hands by unknown forces. He did not want him reading books, especially ones which he seemed to want to hide whenever Harry entered the room. He did not want him staring into space, seeing through him with that strange expression. He did not want him going back to Hogwarts; he did not want to lose him so soon after he had almost been lost.

"Dad, I'm _fine. _Eric, Mark and Dan were all in the compartment with me and they're all back at school."

There was no arguing with that. He remembered being furious when Mrs Weasley stifled him at the beginning of his fifth year, and he had been less coddled than Brian. He tried to find arguments nonetheless, but both Ginny and Brian's faces told him he was being unreasonable. He talked on about the Dark movement, the slow reports of how the Lieutenant's support was not broken, how his desire for revenge had solidified…

"And there's no place safer than at Hogwarts," Ginny pointed out.

There really were no arguments there, and no room to invent any. So it was that the Chief Auror, burdened by disturbing correspondence and suddenly speaking to a deaf Ministry, waved goodbye to his son, who disappeared on Hagrid's motorbike without a second look.

* * *

Minerva dipped her head into her hands and shoved the parchment away. The harrowing task of writing a letter to the Smiths was proving nothing short of insurmountable; what possible words could be said? Her mind wandered between the past and the future, rather than remaining in the present, frustrating her, grating rudely against words she wrote about a dead boy. She could not make herself think about Cal; a living man, due to arrive within mere minutes, intruded. 

Albus.

No, Albus _and Snape._

For a second the former's young mask of a face seemed to hover above her desk, blood-shot eyes like a wounded animal's. The sight still came to her as a shock; 'vulnerable' was not a word she assigned to the ex-Headmaster, any more than 'reform' was synonymous with Snape – and now even the latter was being claimed again. No. She frowned, inwardly scolding herself. Albus was 'vulnerable' when it came to those he loved; he had been afraid he had hurt her, still constantly found it hard to believe she could love him, and the first impact of the scene in the woods with Snape had not been the ex-Potions Master himself but the expression of the disguised man beside him. Still more vivid was the image of Albus pleading with Harry. There was no more there than what she had already suspected on the night of his death: that, to Albus, Snape—_Severus_—was simply a Harry gone wrong.

She knuckled her hands in her eyes. _That _was the problem. What had she felt, on that night? Grief… and stunned disbelief. _That _had been the twist of the knife, _that _had been what had rendered the Order almost directionless after his death. _Albus was wrong. _They had sat and toasted Sirius for dying still fighting the enemy, but after Albus there had just been flatness, misery too deep to be spoken, a hard corner their minds shrank from. He had not died 'fighting the enemy' but at the mercy of someone whom he had trusted, and he had not been killed but been murdered. _He was wrong._

No, that was wrong too. They hadn't even been able to think that. There had just been a question:

Why?

Then the moment in which she had read the name 'Lord Snape'—the same pain condensed into two words. She had thought immediately of Albus and his feelings, rather than anything practical. She had imagined a smirking Dark Lord tormenting him, as Albus Dumbledore, having at the time not realised that Snape knew the truth.

And again, the sight of Snape on the ground: a confusion of memories, of both a colleague and a traitor. How he had detested mint sauce, and how she had teased him about it being a 'nice Slytherin green.' How Harry had broken the news that he had murdered the Headmaster. How he had moodily handed over the House Cup at the beginning of 1991. A strange enough mix without Albus's incomprehensible arguments—

_"He's changed, he mustn't go to Azkaban—"_

_Oh Albus, _she thought. _You said that once before._

She instantly felt guilty for thinking it. Upset. He had not returned to her after almost two black decades just so they could disagree. A sigh caught in her throat.

"Albus," she said aloud.

"My dear."

He was suddenly standing in the doorway, auburn hair bright against sky-blue robes. Her breath caught again; the absence had been brutal by itself. The Headmistress was out of her seat and halfway across the room before she saw that the sapphire eyes were uncharacteristically avoiding hers. The disagreement was expected, she realised.

"Minerva, about—"

She laid one finger across his worried lips. Closer to, the hurt was even more apparent; the lines in his brow had deepened, and yet at the same time the boy in him was once again plainly visible, staring out of enlarged, sad eyes. Her affection throbbed, and she removed her finger to make room for her mouth. For a moment he remained stiff and withdrawn, but as she deepened the kiss, a hand moved around her back. They remained, buried in each other, hearts beating together through their robes, until the Headmistress forced herself to draw back.

"I've missed you."

The eyes had recovered their twinkle. "Surely not as much I did you."

She swallowed and cupped the weary face before her in her hands, not wanting to bring the issue between them up again. Only the sudden, fleeting mental picture of the old, white-haired Albus flying from a tower made her speak.

"Are you sure?"

He looked desperately at her. "Minerva, I know what you are thinking—but believe me when I say that Severus has been protecting Brian—"

"I've read the papers. He sent the notes, the warnings?"

He nodded, and closed his hands gently round her wrists. "He has reformed—"

A lump formed in her throat. "So you said before."

He looked stung, and let go, turning his head out of her grasp. In spite of the auburn hair, age seemed to fall on him, forcing his gaze to the floor. Pity made her silent. She wanted to fling her arms round him, swamp him in comfort—but what good would that do, if he was wrong? To lose him again…

"I was in error then… but I do not believe I am now. Minerva, he tried to kill himself for what he had done!"

The scepticism swept over her face before she could stop it; a suicidal Snape was like a malicious Weasley, a complete contradiction of the self-interest of his House… He looked at her sharply, and stared into her eyes, asking permission—

—A greasy-haired man pointing a wand at his own neck—

The office returned, to show Albus peering at her pleadingly. She felt a bolt of something like anger shoot through her, something that was remarkably indistinguishable from love—

"His acting was such that he fooled you the last time! He made you believe that he loved Lily too much to serve Voldemort, and now he's making you believe—"

He seized her shoulders. "Do you trust me?"

The sapphire appealed to her, but she wrenched herself out of his hands. "I trust you not to be so blind!"

"Minerva—"

"He's duping you, Albus Dumbledore, just as he did before!"

"Severus—"

_"—Is not Harry Potter!"_

The force of her anger and desperation shocked them both. His face was white and stunned, as though she had just hit him in the face. The Headmistress's mind was burning; she could remember herself standing before a white tomb, crying hysterically, with years of grief watching from behind—did that mean nothing at all? Had he returned to make the same wretched mistake again?

"He is _not_ Harry Potter, he is _not_ some abused surrogate son who…"

Too far. She bit her lip before turning her back, not wanting to see the hurt she had caused. The silence rested like a lead-weight on her shoulder-blades—or was that his stare bowing her down? The fury had coiled into a pain in her chest, a pain that urged her to bury her face in his beard.

Footsteps, and the creak of a seat, as though he had dropped into it suddenly. Her stiffness became a prison. She expected—no, wanted him to say something, but the silence merely deepened. They were both trapped and blind, still in the room that they shared, nailed by the very love they shared, and her body seemed to thrum with the unnatural state it was in: turned away from him, apart from him, cold and alone. How had they moved from open affection to this? The lump in her throat grew until speech was impossible.

The thrumming became unbearable; it was a spasm that passed up her spine, forcing her to turn her head—

He was sitting in the chair across her desk, gaze cast down to his lap, whole body slumped and miserable. The eyes behind the half-moons were over-bright.

She could observe no more; she was bent down next to him, pressing her cheek against his, breathing in the smell of sherbet lemons. One long-fingered hand was cupping her closer to him, stroking through her hair. Her own eyes were pricking, and one large blue iris was all that could be seen, understanding in its vastness. Water leaked and fell against her own face.

"Oh, Minerva…"

There was no need to say anything; she knew he knew.

"You will _not _lose me again."

* * *

There had been another change. 

Of course, Rolanda thought, sitting on the sofa next to Aberforth, people were still reeling from the superficial aspect of the first—the mere fact of his presence on the street in new robes, the return of his usual scowl, the groomed appearance of his hair. Passers-by could be heard commenting on the renewed fence and the tamed garden. If nothing else mattered but the external, she had a special privilege in being able to see the changes in the living room.

For one thing, the bottles were gone. She had not had to say anything; they simply vanished along with his need. For another, the cobwebs had been banished, and didn't seem likely to return. Surfaces gleamed, a ruined rug was notable only by its absence, and the goats had been expelled to the garden. If a scowl was how everyone else viewed a 'normal' Aberforth, then she was able to see the happier one, whose face would split suddenly into a grin, who would be found not slumped into nothingness but hunched over a book, brow furrowed as he spelled out the more complicated words. Sullenness was replaced with laughter, and more. _This _was the true first change—the change that was just for her.

"_…I almost wish I'd known someone like that."_

She had said that to Minerva when talking about Albus. Aberforth was not the same, but his personality fit hers like a glove. She could not imagine the old Headmaster cracking rude jokes, or making obscene hand gestures. When an unfortunately shaped parsnip had been found in one the old sacks in the stairwell, Aberforth had roared along with her, whilst his brother would probably have stood and 'twinkled,' as she thought of it. Even Minerva and Poppy—when things had been less awkward—would have scolded her for being immature. With Aberforth, however, underneath the growling exterior was someone who was utterly accepting and as immature as her. In some strange way, he was the heath, and she was free to gambol in it as she pleased.

Yet now there was another change. If she hadn't been observant with Minerva, then she was at least 'on the ball' with the old wizard. She had noticed the change straight after the attack on the Hogwarts Express. Had it been anybody else she would have thought the event had aroused some troubling memory of the war, but Aberforth had always given the distinct impression of having trudged through without viewing it as any particularly traumatic episode. No. She wasn't sure what it was; there was only the feeling that once again he had withdrawn slightly—not from her, but from any expression of his thoughts.

She could see it now, in the distant look in his eyes. His fingers were crooked in his lap and nothing had been said throughout her recital of the headlines of the _Daily Prophet_—odd in itself as Aberforth was prone to making scathing comments about various celebrities and scoffing at the Ministry. The only indication that he had even been listening was the twitch one hand gave at the headline 'Ministry Plays Down Potter Kidnap.' That slotted in with what she had thought before about the impact of the incident, but his stillness was disconcerting. Perhaps she should ask?

_You're always so impulsive, Rolanda, _Poppy's voice sounded in her brain.

Mentally, she poked out her tongue. She could imagine Poppy's face adopting an expression of mock outrage, even a conversation—

_Pooh to that!_

_I think you've spent too much time whizzing around on a broomstick, Rolanda Hooch. You've got a brain like a Bludger!_

_Too many sick teenagers, Pops. You're getting boring._

_Don't call me Pops!_

Her mouth twisted unconsciously in a smile before she remembered that Poppy was angry with her. The reality caught her by surprise; she was suddenly cold, swamped with memories of Minerva's wry smile and Poppy's sensible sighs—

"Can you read it to me?"

Rolanda blinked, and struggled back to the present. Aberforth was still looking away, brow furrowed. When she gave no response his eyes flicked towards her.

"The article."

"Oh—right. _Ministry Plays Down Potter Kidnap._

_"Ministers yesterday refused to comment on the capture of Brian Potter by followers of the now imprisoned dark wizard Severus Snape, accusing the media of contradicting concerns for national security. Alberta Scrogg, representative of the Minister's Public Liaison Committee, reacted strongly against suggestions of a growing Dark threat._

_"'There is absolutely no evidence of this,' he told Daily Prophet reporter Jennifer Elk. 'The kidnap of Brian Potter ended with the capture of Snape, the only potential Dark leader. Reports of swelling Dark forces are unsupported by research by the Aurors, and are alarmist and unhelpful to public order.'_

_"The trial of Severus Snape continues."_

"That it?" Aberforth asked after she had finished.

"Yep. A very boring article, really. I mean, Snape still sends a shiver down my spine, but then he always did that sitting next to me at the High Table anyway."

Aberforth did not answer. For a moment she wondered if he wanted another article read, but then he lurched upwards, so suddenly that the sofa moved. As though she was not there, he began to pace up and down the small room, gaze fixed on an invisible point. Bewildered, Rolanda stared at him.

"Aberforth—"

"Research by the Aurors…" He stopped and curled a finger in his beard. "Potter's not been saying that."

"Eh?"

"Potter's been saying the opposite. That there are Dark wizards about." He paced again, and stopped. "They did this before the war, you know. Said nothing was happening when Voldemort was rising, and said nothing when he rose again."

She felt her eyebrows quirk. "Well the Ministry have always made a mess of things. And don't you think it's a bit _extreme _to compare now to the war?"

The old wizard shrugged and shifted from one foot to the other. "Who knows? Something's afoot. I'm not going to sit by this time and watch them all screw it up again, woman!"

The Flying instructor struggled to quell a smile. Aberforth only ever applied the term 'woman' when, as Moody might have said, 'riled up;' the contrast between the indignant man across the room and the drooping depressive was even more obvious. The blue eyes suddenly seemed to hold his brother's twinkle; she wondered if he was thinking the same thing. The moment passed, and his mouth became a tense line, opening reluctantly.

"I was thinking—thinking of writing a letter."

Rolanda gave him a blank look.

"To the paper."

She found herself staring at his hands, which were twisting and kneading.

"Only… I'm not a man of letters."

His cheeks were pink behind his beard, as if the idea of writing a letter was an embarrassing one. Rolanda opened her mouth to say that she would be glad to help and even dictate if necessary, and to ask what he wanted to write about, but more was coming, words which tumbled out as if each was a guilty secret—

"And I want to be interviewed. About the war. To get some publicity."

His head was now turned away from her, and his shoulders were hunched slightly, as if expecting her to explode into violent criticism. Completely baffled, the witch gaped at him. _Aberforth _wanting to do interviews? _Wanting _publicity?

"To… you know… become a bit more prominent."

Astonishment finally fired her mouth. "W-what? Why would you want to become more prominent? Or give interviews? Or—or anything?"

The old wizard gave an odd, jerking shrug.

"That's not an answer."

"Well, someone got to do something, haven't they? I mean, what with Dark wizards about… a funny feeling in my gut. Someone's got to—and I'm, I'm his brother—"

Some remaining, unsurprised part of the Flying instructor remarked that a 'funny feeling in the gut' was best treated by Poppy Pomfrey, but on the main, the feeling of stumbling into an alternate reality increased. The mention of the old Headmaster was virtually taboo between them, and yet here was Aberforth not only acknowledging the connection but almost seeming _bound _by it—

"Why does the fact that you're his brother—?"

"For Merlin's sake, woman! He was a bloody saint; any brother of his might be listened to over some idiot of an official!"

The final realisation of what he was saying made the blood flee; her face buzzed.

"You're that sure that trouble's coming?" she said quietly. "So sure that you're going to—going to take up his… mantle?"

The shoulders hunched higher and the voice became gruff. "Well… he was a genius and I can't even write a letter… and I don't know whether I could inspire people or make them listen to me… I don't know whether the Order would listen to me… Being a weirdo obsessed with goats and all…"

Silently, she rose from the sofa. She stared at the defensive back, and moved quietly round, to see the down-turned, abstracted face, and the eyes glowing like a pair of cut jewels. In spite of the faltering words, in spite of the slight expression of shame… there was something in him, something of the phoenix his brother had so often blazed with. The impact of that knowledge seemed to curl within her. For the first time, she felt herself looking with more than affection, but with admiration.

He sensed her, and looked up, caught her expression. He turned away, cheeks pink under the beard.

"It'll probably come to nothing."

"Yes, but the fact that you want—"

He shook his head and stomped out of the room, down the stairs. Outside, his voice carried to her as it called for the goat in the garden.

* * *

Jonathan Blaine stirred faintly from his sleep. The guards were walking up and down again, stamping in their heavy, hobnailed boots. Another time he would have sat up in his cold cell and roared at the filthy Mudbloods and blood-traitors to be quiet, to show some respect. Now he was exhausted, the passion within him dimmed. What did it matter, now that his hero was a traitor, whimpering to the Aurors and the Ministry, turning on his own followers? If he opened one eye, a shameful picture of Snape being led in chains would be seen on the front of the _Daily Prophet, _ripped in half in his fury. 

He had refused to believe it, at first. He had bellowed through the barred windows at the guards that the Lord had _not _been captured, could _never _be captured, that the _Daily Prophet _was the Order's rag, that they were pretending—

Then the photos became undeniable. Worse still was Snape's flat voice on the guards' radio, an excerpt from an interrogation, denying that he had ever written any part of the _The Dark Manifesto, _that he had been _helping _the brat Brian Potter…

Dust and ashes, that was the Dark now! Dust and ashes, betrayed and broken…

The wind whistled in the corridors. His hatred was sunk within him, no longer burning but a weight he had to drag around, at the mercy of half-breeds and Mudbloods…

A tapping.

He opened his eyes, and raised his head off the hard bed to press an ear against the masonry. Rabastan Lestrange, banging some unknown code through the wall.

A sneer curled his lips. Brother-in-law to the great Bellatrix the old Death Eater may have been, but how many incomprehensible codes would he have to suffer before the fool rolled over and died? Barely a glimpse of a broomstick in the sky, and the idiot would be off again, eventually ending up raving that they were all going to be rescued, that Voldemort was back to break them out—

No. His eyes closed and his chin sunk onto his thin chest. They were never going to be rescued.

BOOM.

His eyes snapped open, and the bed shook beneath him. For one wild moment he imagined Lestrange somehow exploding something in his cell—

BOOM.

He was flung off the bed, ribs banging against the stone—

—Down the corridor, a scream sounded. Hobnailed boots were pounding past his door, and through the tiny barred window came a flash of green—

_"The Lieutenant!" _Lestrange bellowed.

"Lord now, you nincompoop!" came an unfamiliar voice. "Come on—out to kill these Mudbloods—"

Blaine rose, the laughter swelling up and out of him. The fire inside, his passion for the Dark, was blazing back, and he was bloodying his fists against the door, yelling encouragement to the cloaked figures, closing his eyes against exploding masonry—

The rising dust rushed, and formed a halo. A tall, dark figure radiating power stepped through, began to stalk up the corridor—

_"GLORY TO THE DARK! LONG LIVE THE NEW LORD! Ever have I served the one true night!"_

He raised one bloody hand through the bars, and saw the cruel, sculpted countenance turn towards him, lips curved in a mocking smile.

"Ever? And so young—ever is _nothing—"_

"Ever is how I shall serve you, my Lord!"

The lips curved wider. "Oh, it's dear young Blaine! Why, he must be set free immediately!"

He only had time to leap back before the door shattered, barred window buckling and ripping. The force of it threw him back into the opposite wall, but he flung himself forward onto his knees—

Aloysius Dolohov stood above him, proffering a wand.

"Ready to spread the Dark again?"

* * *

_AZKABAN BROKEN OPEN: CHILLING ECHO OF THE WAR_

TWO MORE FAMILIES ATTACKED

"NO NEW DARK LORD," SAYS MINISTER

The _Daily Prophet _headlines fell on Hogwarts like a sudden blizzard. The Great Hall echoed with dozens of shouts of horror, gasps of fear. Students read the papers under their desks in lessons, and asked the alarmed Binns about the war. Rumours flew up and down the corridors; an old atmosphere had settled in the castle again, the heaviness of collective fear. Those who believed the Ministry shrugged a little too carelessly, spoke a little too loudly of how lucky it was that Snape hadn't been held in Azkaban at the time… Those who read the _Quibbler _waved back-issues containing an irate Harry warning of a rising Dark. Young eyes turned on the professors, the grim old professors who had seen it all before…

Minerva McGonagall stared unseeingly at her lunch. The pang of rage she felt against the ever-denying Ministry was an automatic one; all she chiefly registered was the deadness of absolute certainty. Soon the _Daily Prophet _would be reporting nothing at all, unless its editors were less open to bribes than they had been previously. Albus, in the guise of Brian, had not yet arrived for lunch, and there was no solid point to hold onto. Filius's squeaky voice seemed to stab through her skull.

"—And do you know, Aberforth sent them a letter warning that there might be an attack before it happened! Look, they've printed it here—"

She closed her ears and looked up at the cloudy, enchanted sky.

The third war, whether Snape was a part of it or not, had begun.

* * *

**A/N: (Cough) review, even if I don't deserve it? Dumbles will give you sweets if you do! Oh, to who it was who asked about the Astronomy Tower line—I was being silly and metaphorical.  
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	30. The Phoenix Reborn

**A/N: Argh! I hate both this one and the last one, but I seem to be a little rusty! Thank you all reviewers; I can't say how much the fact that you're still reading means to me. The same thanks also applies to the people who have been adding this story to their alerts and favourites over the last couple of days. A special mention to mugglemin, whose high words made me blush!**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

"I would advise that the Order is reformed." 

Brian's young face was acting as a mask again, barely concealing the man the Headmistress knew. The morning, before the _Daily Prophet _had arrived, had seen Albus's twinkling eyes transcending his immature features; now, late at night, when Brian should have been in bed, came words which contradicted apparent innocence. Still, the incongruity between the boy and her relationship with the man kept her half turned away, staring into the fire.

The urgency had been too much for Ageing Potion; they had lost months in the first war when days had been essential. Brian—_Albus_—had burst in so suddenly, so late at night that Minerva first realised he was there by the sound of the portraits being turned over. There had been no place for affection, even if their bodies had allowed them; time had somehow reversed, sending her back into the position of Deputy, and Albus back as the leader of the Order. They had moved into her private chambers without speaking, possibly to keep the sound of the boyish voice to a minimum.

How much she wanted the man now! How she wanted to curl her fingers in the auburn locks, and drag her lips across his neck! She did not want the past to return; to sink back to the position of a person to allocate tasks to. The stupid, recurring thought would not leave. She had almost lost track of what he had said.

"I…"

The old x-ray stare pierced her. "Why the hesitation? You were my second-in-command; they will listen to you. If you don't feel yourself capable, my dear, then all I can say is that that is absurd. You have the head for strategy, as shown by my endless defeats in our chess-matches."

A barrage of words, none of them expressive of what she wanted. Minerva watched the flames flicker before answering. "What about Potter? He's more than capable, and I'd be surprised if he hadn't summoned the Order already. Or Moody? He has my experience as well as that of an ex-Auror."

The small mouth opened to speak, but she felt the appeal burst out her, the part that wanted love and not war—

"Do you really believe that it is all starting again?"

He chewed his lip. "I don't pretend to be a Seer, Minerva. But Aloysius Dolohov reminds me worryingly of a young Tom Riddle."

A heavy sigh rushed out of her. "How many more wars must there be?"

"As long as there are those who wish to dominate, I fear. As I was saying, the Order must be reformed; I foresee the Ministry being just as unreasonable as before. We must work out where Dolohov intends to strike next—have the names of the families been released?"

"No, but I suspect that…"

Their eyes met, and she looked away again. _Families related to those who fought in the war, no doubt. _Did he still feel responsible?

Albus gave a grim nod, as though she had spoken. "Also… Hogwarts has always been a target. The Ward security should be upped."

"That's a problem. The experts who dealt with the core told me that only minimum security should be—"

The flames suddenly surged and glowed green. They had time to stare at each other before the blaze began to concentrate, lick around a form. Albus gave her an odd look of reassurance and then darted out of the chair. Startled, she stood up just as the silver cloak swished over him and a head appeared in the flames.

An unpleasant jolt of recognition went through her. The scarred face of Alastor Moody glared up, both normal and magical eyes fixed in one direction. Like a burst of cold water she remembered the letter he had sent some while after Aberforth had fled the Great Hall; the sharp scrawl that had echoed everything she had thought—

"Identify yourself!" he said roughly.

For one moment the Headmistress wondered whether his hatred was to the extent that she was no longer recognised as a human being; then she remembered such things as security. She drew herself up, resisting the urge to look at the spot where Albus had disappeared.

"Minerva McGonagall, Headmistress of Hogwarts."

"And what did you claim when you broke Aberforth Dumbledore's heart at the ball?"

The question was like a cold, silver knife dug between her ribs. The blood leapt to her cheeks. How dare…?

"Alastor, that question is completely—"

_"What did you claim?"_

The gash of a mouth was twisted in disgust. Painfully feeling the presence of Albus behind her, her temper roared.

"How, pray tell, is that a secure question? It was at a _ball—"_

Moody sniffed. "What did you say at the first Order meeting after Albus Dumbledore's death?"

"That we must be inspired by his memory." All her muscles had locked with anger. "And now you can cease this ridiculous behaviour!"

The eyes seemed to stare straight through her. "Headquarters is the same as before. I'm Secret-Keeper; when the first meeting is arranged someone will give you a note. Any questions?"

"You are in charge of the Order?"

He threw her a look of poison. "I'm second-in-command. _Aberforth _is leading."

The surprise was like a punch in the chest. A montage of Aberforths appeared to approach: one showering her with roses, one tearing out of the Great Hall in despair and another slumped on the cobbles, clutching a bottle. The ghostly concept of another, spreading his gnarled hands as he addressed a rapt Order, was bizarre; every attempt to imagine it made her think of Albus. A weight settled in her stomach—how, after all that had happened, could she sit opposite Aberforth and discuss Order plans?

"He recalled us straight after the morning papers were delivered." Moody's tone was accusatory. "A damn sight quicker than how _others _of us have responded—"

"I was under the impression that Potter—"

"_Faster even than him. _And if you had opened the _Daily Prophet _and read his letter—"

How could she explain the exhaustion that had stopped her, the fear of seeing words that he had written? There was no way; she could only shake her head, helpless. An invisible hand touched her shoulder as Moody's head gave a disparaging shake and departed. For a second another head seemed to hang in the flames—Aberforth's, set with familiar blue eyes that hated her…

There was a swish as the invisibility cloak was removed. Brian's small body was trembling, and his cheeks were pink.

"By Merlin, Minerva, if the situation were different then I would have been tempted to curse that eye out of his head!"

Those blue eyes were soft and embarrassed when they looked at her. She felt a painful wish for his old form, a desire to draw him into an embrace. Her own cheeks flushed; the memory of a sweat-soaked pair of bodies curled around each other in a tomb had arrived out of nowhere. What did a war matter? What she wanted…

"His behaviour is completely inexcusable—"

"—You know he's simply concerned about Aberforth," she said distractedly, fury gone, the key of her mood changed. Moody was now far away and meaningless. "And when you think of his point of view—"

…Could she, though? Could she make that surrender? Somewhere, a little girl existed, frightened of adulthood, of relationships, of everything—a little girl she had crushed each time, but who had been petrified each time…

"Of course, but he has no right to judge—"

… All her experiences in that realm had been frightening, all of them underlining the idea that choice was rare, that she was a vessel for their frustrations to be put into…Yet the illusion—what Albus wanted—had been different…

"—And to treat you in that manner—"

"Albus."

Her tone did not fit the conversation. He stopped pacing, and peered worriedly over the half-moons.

"Are you all right, my dear?"

Her fingers fumbled; the heat that enclosed her thoughts had extended outside her skin. "I was thinking… of that night… with those illusions…"

The pink spots in his cheeks turned to red. Was he thinking of the same thing? Yes, he was—his mind was stepping round it as an obstacle…

"Yes?"

"I don't know… I would rather not…"

Unconsciously, she was leant forward, grasping his hands and mentally adding the age to them, trying to look at the eyes instead of the flesh around them—

"Albus, would you still love me even if I could not—even if we were not able to—_make _love?"

The small Adam's Apple bobbed. His look was one of raw intensity, and he was sinking to the floor to kiss the back of one hand—

"Minerva… I love you as you are, I'd love us to continue as we are. I love _you, _what you want, what you are comfortable with. All we do is an expression of what we feel—and I would feel no less if I found myself forbidden to ever touch even your hand, for I love the woman inside, not only her body. Why were you worried, my dearest?"

She could do nothing but clutch his hand as tightly as possible, so that the bones creaked. The pulse in her flesh deepened, became indistinguishable from her emotion. They remained still: the boy, kneeling, staring keenly upwards, and the woman, seated, almost afraid to meet his gaze.

* * *

"The Department of Mysteries," the cool, female voice said. 

The grille opened and disgorged the Chief Auror, who strode with a closed face past a wandering official. Of course, Harry corrected himself, people did not simply 'wander' in the Department of Mysteries, unless they were himself: present without reason, without authorisation, and against his better instincts. The last time he had been so had resulted in the death of his godfather. _A vision of the Veil. _The back of his throat dried as he moved up the black, still corridor.

The explanation for it—the only one that sounded vaguely logical or believable—was that he was idle, dangerously idle at the moment. The whole Auror department was in stasis, waiting for the disappearances and deaths, bound by absurd red-tape. He was forced to sit as his desk, twiddling his thumbs, watching Tonks relieve tension through pacing, or Higgins hum tunelessly—forced to wait as an invisible storm drew ever closer. The Azkaban breakout had resulted in a predictable flurry with little concrete achievement; the escaped Death Eaters were gone without a trace, and suddenly the Ministry was inventing paperwork instead of useful measures. They had nothing to play with except the depressing names of the families killed, predictable in their links: Doge and Diggle. The previous afternoon had seen him hissing swear-words in Parseltongue, remembering another year of denial and waste. He loathed being inactive more than anything.

Yes, the Order had been recalled, but the meeting was yet to take place. He wondered who would miss the silver-haired Doge or the excitable Diggle. He could and would, if need be, take the lead, but he wanted to trust in blue eyes… At the moment, nothing was happening.

Yet something _was _being done, down here where he was not allowed. For almost twenty years he had hated the man being interrogated down here, kept in the most secure place in the Ministry. Nobody had had to tell him to keep away; he could not predict his own behaviour if left alone with the prisoner. He had sat and watched the Aurors parade out of the department to return hours later, shaking their heads, wordless.

Now impatience had conquered him—he was in the revolving dark room, watching the signs for one particular door. How could he keep away, when what he had heard was so surprising? The mechanism ground, like the memories in his head.

_"Blocked again, and again, and again until you learn to keep your mouth shut and your mind closed, Potter!"_

_"Tut, tut—fame clearly isn't everything."_

_"There are many things in the Department of Mysteries, Potter, few of which you would understand and none of which concern you. Do I make myself clear?"_

Harry felt his lips twist in a grim smile. He doubted that the Potions Master had ever guessed that he would one day be among those 'many things' and that he would certainly be among the Chief Auror's concerns.

As for understanding, however…

He was passing down another obsidian passage, counting the number of doors along. His face was tingling with anticipation. _Two… Three… _Brian's confusing testimony crowded his mind. _Five…Six…_

He stopped, and looked through the window set into the sixth door. Nothing was beyond but a small black room, empty except for a battered table. His wand drew a cross over the glass.

_"Verum exsisto ostendo."_

The battered table leapt sideways and morphed, spilling upwards like mist. The mist curved to form a sphere, and then cleared, revealing a watery ball, inside which a cloaked form curled, twisted into position. Greasy locks swirled inside the floating prison, shockingly visible against the obsidian walls. Across the room stood two Aurors, the frowning Macmillan and the pale Davis, one of the few females in the department. Both had their wands trained firmly on the prisoner and both were staring intensely into the black eyes.

Harry felt his own gaze sharpen and seemingly burn through the window and the hovering prison. _Snape. _Murderer, coward… saviour? The haggard head, with its large hooked nose, seemed resigned.

Macmillan's mouth moved. The cell was Imperturbed; he could hear nothing. Snape gave a savage nod, and Macmillan flicked his wand, crying something. Davis appeared to hesitate, and then did the same. Snape's back went rigid. Yes, this was it, this was the surprising moment he had arrived in time to see—

_"The prisoner has said that he will surrender his mind to any Leglimens,"_ Shacklebolt's deep voice repeated in his ears.

Snape's face was twitching and crumpling, the arched brows descending in pain—they were being rough with him as he had once been with Harry, digging down into his soul like a Muggle drill penetrating into concrete. The Chief Auror leaned until his nose was touching the glass, wondering if they were seeing everything, seeing the _Avada Kedavra _cast at a helpless Dumbledore, seeing Potions lessons in which his father's name was dirtied, seeing the same man sending notes to Brian—

The Aurors had lowered their wands and were exchanging significant looks. Snape was sinking backwards, skin grey, lids drooping. He was still flat against the glass, wanting to know…

Davis's head turned; her eyes widened. Harry drew back as her wand danced in the air, unravelling the protective enchantments. The door was opened, releasing the smell of sweat. He swept in. Macmillan raised one eyebrow, but the Chief Auror's stare was latched onto the prone Snape.

"What did you find out?"

At the sound of his voice, Snape's eyes snapped open. He writhed up in his prison, the ashen hue of his flesh fading to a yellowish white. Harry felt a distant tremble of rage shoot down him, as if affecting someone else.

"It appears that the prisoner's testimony and the evidence of Brian Potter has been confirmed," said Macmillan, expression neutral.

He tore his gaze off of Snape. "What?"

"I said… it appears to have been confirmed."

Davis next to him gave an emphatic nod. The distant rage turned into a near swell of confusion.

"He's a skilled Occlumens. He could have constructed memories for you to see."

Macmillan looked vaguely sceptical. "Of course, only Veritaserum could confirm anything. And at the moment that's being limited to court use."

"When is the trial?" asked Harry, meeting Snape's eyes with a stiff jaw.

"A few day's time."

The unpleasant concept of facing his son across a courtroom on two opposite sides of a case intruded; he shoved it away. He felt a hardening of fury against Snape for making it possible.

"He showed you everything?"

"Everything," Davis whispered. "And… his mind felt—"

"We can't be subjective about this," Macmillan interrupted, but his expression was unreadable.

"You two will have to give testimony of what you saw at the trial."

Both Aurors nodded. "We'll sit down and write a report now, sir."

They moved to leave. He could not leave; he was still transfixed by the loathsome enigma presented to him in the floating ball: the man who had killed his mentor and saved his son. Snape was looking down and away from him, sable locks concealing his eyes. He considered speaking, but his tongue was like a leaden lump against his teeth. Macmillan and Davis were waiting, the former's face knotted into anxiety.

He cast one more look of hate and confusion at his ex-professor, and left the room.

* * *

The dream eased its way into him, along the path it had already taken. He was in the same whispering field, standing in the middle of a stretch of grass that swayed with a soft wind. The venerable stranger against the tree still held the same book, and greeted him with the same knowing smile. Only the colour of the sky—no longer azure, but livid from a setting sun—had changed. 

He was walking towards the tree, intensely aware of the stretch and pull of his sinews, the milky strength of his bones, the undisturbed clarity of his skin… the bloom of youth. The air around him seemed curiously substantial, as if silk was flapping over his limbs. Out of the corner of one eye he glimpsed a rippling, maternal vision, a surreal mixture of two mothers, two breasts he had suckled at. Two voices wove nursery rhymes into the wind.

The stranger had blue eyes which twinkled with secrets. The crooked nose was pointed at the book, but the secrets were visible, directed at him. The effect was infuriating, but as he neared the tree, the age of the old man became ever more apparent: the gouged lines marring the brow, the hoary pallor of the beard. In spite of the secrets, he knew there to be scars under the robes, left by an ancient German mage. Had he ever existed in such a shell?

He was about to stop, but noticed something odd about the book, something sitting in the fold of the pages. The cerulean orbs flicked down from him to it and back again. He stepped closer, and bent down to see.

The stone that sat in the pages was a violent red that outshone the sky, shocking with the intensity of blood. He looked sharply at the old wizard, remembering…

The stranger who was not a stranger caught and held his gaze. The twinkle flamed brighter. Long, gnarled fingers turned up the book, so that a worn leather cover was revealed. He knelt, and read in fading, gold letters—

_The Last Quest, Nicholas Flamel._

* * *

Twelve, Grimmauld Place was, in spite of its dingy location, unexpectedly large. After being bellowed at by an unreasonable Black ancestor, tripping over an oddly placed umbrella stand and for the hundredth time entering a room that appeared to contain an ancient family tree instead of living Order members, Rolanda Hooch was resisting the urge to scream with frustration. The novelty of being inside the secret Order headquarters was fast wearing off, and a strange, desperate need to find Aberforth had seized her. Half an hour she had been trapped with Molly Weasley down in the kitchen, being bored out of her brains by sugar-coated musings over various Weasley descendents! No, she needed to find someone who would not be offended at the suggestive positioning of a pair of tomatoes and a carrot. 

More to the point, she needed to fling her arms round someone and kiss them into senselessness! A grin curled her mouth as she climbed another flight of stairs.

Two more black, monotonous doors opened before her before she found her goal: Aberforth, alone in a cluttered junk-room. His grizzled hair was tumbling down his back, which was turned towards her; he appeared rapt amongst disturbed dust-motes, staring down into the deserted Muggle street. Her beam grew wider, almost out of her control. The sight had dissipated all her irritation. Oh, what a heath she had to frolic in!

She was dashing across the room and wrapping her arms around him—

"Aberforth!"

Her arms met unyielding stiffness. The muscles in his white face were taut beneath a sheen of sweat.

"What—?"

"What am I doing?" One of his hands was tearing at his beard. "What _am _I doing?"

Her voice came out with a strange, forced lightness. "Standing in the middle of a room, from the looks of it."

All thoughts of tonsil Quidditch now seemed rather inappropriate. Rolanda tried to wrap her body round the old wizard's, but the skeletal form was immovable, all the force inside it locked and bent away from her. She shifted until their bones slotted into each other, until she could feel the rapidly beating heart. Pressing her hand to it, she looked up and tried to catch the distant gaze.

"What's the matter?"

"The matter is that I'm a bloody fool." One long, trembling finger pointed backwards through the doorway. "They'll all be here soon! And I'm supposed to say something to them, inspire them! Produce some genius plan!"

"No one's expecting you to come up with one on the spot," Rolanda pointed out. "I bet old Dumbledore discussed things before producing anything."

"Old Dumbledore…" he breathed. The eyes seemed to find her, and the hand moved from his beard to the back of her head. "Exactly. I'm not him, and I shouldn't have tried to be him. I'm not… not clever enough for this. I shouldn't have stepped forward, offered myself up when I have no experience, no way of… Merlin's beard, I'm going to screw everything up and get people killed all for the sake of a silly whim!"

"You won't," she said softly, nibbling at his ear. "You always underrate yourself. You _can _do this; I know it. And you shouldn't argue with a woman."

An old spasm of self-loathing crept across his features. "Oh yes, and I can do this just like I did that interview?"

"Honestly, you make it sound like a complete disaster!"

"Well it was! That blasted reporter spent ten minutes just trying to get me to talk. I had no idea what to say to her!"

The beam invaded again. "And _then _you came out with a speech. A jolly good one. They've printed it about three times already!"

The irises dodged hers, and the beam stayed in place as she watched the pink suffusion emerge. _You silly man. _Silly, yet splendid. She had been in the room at the time, had sat up as the 'erms' and 'ahs' and gruff responses to irrelevant questions about Minerva had been swept away, replaced by a stream of verbal fire accompanied by hand gestures and glazed eyes. The shrewd, critical reporter had rocked back as if engulfed by a storm, and her Quick-Quotes Quill had sped across the parchment as if possessed. Aberforth had seemingly forgotten he was speaking to her; he had spoken as though addressing a panicking crowd, leaping out of his chair to pace, voice strident in the poky room.

_"…Together, we must stand and fight and fling down those who would take all from us we hold dear! What were the last two wars fought for, if not that we should be able to live without the fear of Darkness? For months Harry Potter, the Man-Who-Defeated-Him, has been warning us…"_

Had the phoenix inside him been dormant until the need of it? Or had it always been there, but hidden away whilst his brother took the lead? Perhaps there had always been the possibility of two Order leaders—one wise and calm and saintly, counselling mercy, and one fierce and animated, sounding as though he would take a wand to every Death Eater himself. Had it surprised her, really? No, not ever since she had seen the heath: all he was, contained in a few acres of ground—lonely and violent, yet majestic and strong, like one of Arthur Weasley's 'springs' bowed into the potential for action.

"You _can _do this," she was saying again, quietly. "Look at me, Aberforth. Do you honestly think, after making a speech like that, that you can't inspire anybody?"

One calloused hand cupped her chin. "I can't plan or organise. I'm not Albus."

"No one is expecting another Albus. And perhaps he wouldn't be what is needed this time, anyway. If you're still worried, I think that Mad-Eye—"

"Minerva expected another Albus."

His eyes were suspiciously watery. Rolanda pressed her hand into his chest until his heartbeat reverberated along her fingers. _Minerva. _She felt a pang, but kissed the corner of his mouth.

"She was _wrong _to think like that."

"We were wrong for each other. And now I've found the _right _woman."

She sucked gently on his lower lip. "You hold onto that."

He sighed; a shudder that rippled down his body, echoing onto hers. "She'll be here tonight."

There was nothing to say to that, so she said nothing. A shaft, almost like a breach between two sides of her, lanced down her chest. Two images came: Aberforth slicing himself open with his wand, and Minerva slumped into tears in a chair. She had soothed one pain, and abandoned another, and did not know how to restore the balance.

"Ah, well…"

The mouth next to hers was pushing back. For a few minutes all was lost in the melding of their forms, in the tonsil Quidditch she had searched for earlier. Aberforth's hand was running down her spine when the door opened.

She didn't care, but his natural embarrassment tore his mouth from hers. Reluctantly, she looked up.

Poppy Pomfrey stood in the doorway, mouth agape.

"Madam Hooch—well—I'm sorry—I'll be going—"

"Poppy—"

The Healer stopped and half-turned, halfway out the room. Rolanda felt a surge of warmth behind her eyes; she could no longer bear to leave things as they were, to be estranged. _Madam Hooch. _It was like a slap to the face! When had they ever called each other by their titles? No, she could not remember such a time! And all over Minerva, and something neither of knew anything about! Over forget-me-nots and mysterious smiles! What did it matter any more?

Her skin was burning under the awkward scrutiny, but she wanted… Merlin, what did she want? The old conversations, the old days, the old little teasing. The ability to link arms with Poppy and made her blush with crude humour. The right to bore her with brooms. She wanted… understanding. _You saw. You know. This is the reason for everything._

None of the ideas would reach her tongue. Poppy was silent, unreadable, a myriad of barely expressed emotions…

"I'll be off downstairs," grunted Aberforth. His hand gripped hers quickly as he passed, and then the door swung shut.

All at once, they were alone. Poppy was inscrutable. Rolanda was terrified.

"How long?"

She tried to convey everything with a look. "Well… ever since… really, ever since…"

"And Minerva…?"

She shrugged, looked down. "I… it was just… he was so very hurt."

"And Minerva wasn't?"

The urge to scream was powerful once again. "No—I mean, _yes—_but I—well I just couldn't—Aberforth was just so…"

"You believed all those articles about her."

The memory of their last conversation brought tears to her eyes. That infernal _Witch Weekly!_

"Can you blame me? Minerva didn't tell either of us—and you must admit, it seemed—"

She cut herself off, wishing the words could be retracted. The conversation was going wrong; the fog that had dragged her away from her friends was back, cloaking and alienating them..

"Like she had met someone else," the other witch finished. "And so soon after she refused Aberforth."

Rolanda nodded, feeling her expression become pleading. "Listen to me, Poppy—I didn't mean to be so—I just couldn't—it was like I was torn…"

Poppy's face was utterly blank.

"I was just… blind," she whispered. "Poppy, I couldn't bear to see him as he was! I was angry on his behalf, I was angry at everyone and everything on his behalf! I cared about him so much and I couldn't understand why Minerva had…done what she had! I…"

Her voice trailed off. All was hopeless; what was beautiful had been lost, and could not be regained. She addressed the floor.

"I'm sorry. I don't have anything else to say. I would like it if you and Minerva spoke to me again, but I don't know how to make things right. Goodbye."

She made to walk out of the room, but a hand closed on her wrist like a vice. Wet brown eyes stared at her. Suddenly she was being hugged too tightly to breath, pressed into the plump body so that all else was invisible. Poppy's sobs sounded in her ear, and her own tears were overflowing onto a robed shoulder. Someone was groaning as if in grief; she suspected that it was herself. The progression from cold conversation to embracing made no sense to her, but what did it matter? The old and valuable had returned, even though Poppy hadn't said anything; it was as if a secret was being confided, wrenched from one aching breast and shared onto another.

_"You idiot, Rolanda!"_

"You always knew I was one!"

The Healer's sopping face returned to view. "Why on earth didn't you say something, tell me at least?"

Childish as always, her hands were to her tears. "I didn't know myself for a while… and by then it was too late. But… you _do _understand?"

"Yes, yes, yes I do! And congratulations!"

"Do you forgive me!"

"Of course! I confess I even found myself thinking in the same way! And if it had been Alastor…"

Her sobs turned to hiccupping chuckles. "Oh… I don't know how I could ever tell Minerva."

"I think she'd be happy for both you. And if you're worried about how Aberforth would act… well, he couldn't _possibly _be any worse than Alastor!"

They were laughing now; all forgiven, all lost into irrelevance. The vision of three girls embracing beside an oak tree was half real again. Rolanda grinned, arms still wrapped around the form of her friend.

"We'll have to go on a double date now!"

"Rolanda—!"

"Oh please, Pops, you know I've always liked the idea of a double date—and there shouldn't be a problem; your Mad-Eye practically worships Aberforth—"

_"Honestly… _you never change!"

"Would you want me to?" asked Rolanda, half-serious.

"Of course not! Now come downstairs; Alastor's starting to get the jitters!"

* * *

He opened his eyes. 

The top of the four-poster bed looked serenely down at him, completely alien to his thumping heart. The red bed-hangings and curtains were drawn, enclosing Brian in a dark ruby box, trapping his racing, bounding thoughts—as though he were inside the stone of the dream—

"The Last Quest," he breathed.

His whole body was trembling with the enormity of it, clenched with one flash of unexpected revelation—

_The Philosopher's Stone._

Impossible, impossible, he was by no means… His mind was encased in the box, racing around, trying to find a way out, an alternative mode of thinking, another explanation—

He sat up, and ran his hands through Brian's shaggy auburn hair, feeling the sweat on his forehead. He could not believe it—certainly not until he had read—

He jumped out of bed, tearing through the curtains, heedless to the noise. The other occupants of the Gryffindor dormitory were all irrelevant, standing outside the ruby box, the bloody stone. He seized his wand and rammed on Brian's half-moons before wrenching the lid off his trunk. Eric Weasley gave a loud snore just as he flung socks and textbooks aside to reveal the secret stash of tomes Minerva had sent him from the old Headmaster's private chambers, shrunk to fit. Wordlessly, he expanded them to their original size.

Where was it?

—There, a signed copy of _The Last Quest, _by Nicholas Flamel. He thumbed desperately through ancient parchment—

—And stopped.

_The phrase 'the Philosopher's Stone' is said to refer to two very different versions of the stone. Most commonly recognised is its identification with the physical Philosopher's Stone, a rock of blood-red colour which grants the user the Elixir of Life and thus immortality. This book will deal primarily with this definition. However, hermetical experts regard such as Stone as only symbolic or representative of the one true Philosopher's Stone, which is a spiritual rather than magical achievement. Those who have achieved the spiritual Philosopher's Stone are said to have attained great wisdom and to have been chosen by the rare mystical bird, the phoenix, which has long been used as a symbol of the Stone. The precise conditions for the achievement of the spiritual Philosopher's Stone are unknown, but it is said that those successful in the quest are granted the chance of resurrection and regeneration, much like the bird which represents it._

Next to the passage was a woodcut of a phoenix, crest erect as it sat on the shoulder of an old man cradling a baby. The phoenix, Albus thought distractedly, looked rather like Fawkes.

The book dropped from his hands. He lay back, panting, feeling as though he had run several miles—

_…Resurrection and regeneration…_

Could it be? He could think of no other explanation—only titbits of information to confirm it—things he had read about the Stone making itself known in dreams, about how the recognition of love was purportedly the final condition—

—Yet he had not recognised his love! He had not dared to before he died, and even for years after—

The memory of himself plunging from the tower forced itself into his head. Yes, he was soaring up and then down, feeling his soul rip away as the rag-doll he had inhabited dropped away—

Then what? He had thought of Harry _and Minerva. _Did that count as recognition? Had he known and _recognised _in that one, agonising moment? His glasses had fallen off; he was rubbing his hands into his face—

"You all right, mate?"

He looked up, and saw the orange blur that was Eric sitting up in bed. He smiled, astonished at his ability to do so, amazed that reality itself was not spinning out of all sense. Some corner of him was even calm enough to ponder how many more times Eric would have to ask that question. He closed the book.

"I'm fine. I just wanted to check something up."

"Now? I know it's only eleven, but... I can understand _you_ not being tired, but Herbology really wore _me_ out! Go to bed!"

"Good night, then!"

He climbed back into the four-poster, closing the curtains behind him. Brian was back in the red box the old man inside of him had, for some inexplicable reason, been granted. The young body lay like a gift given by a complete stranger. An explanation that was no explanation! _The spiritual Philosopher's Stone… _a thing of myth and fantasy. Was it true? _…Chosen by the rare mystical bird, the phoenix… _Had it been decided then? Had he been selected to have another life the second Fawkes had landed in his five-year-old self's lap?

There was a flutter on the bed. A feather brushed his nose, and he caught a flash of avian eyes as the crested head nuzzled into his neck. It was as if Fawkes had known what he was thinking.

The phoenix chirruped, and stepped over, to burrow into his chest. They lay together, two reborn creatures. His heartbeat deepened into sleep.

* * *

They were assembled. 

Tonks, Remus, Shacklebolt, Ron, Hermione, Molly, Arthur, Bill, Fleur, Ginny, Charlie, Fred, George, Poppy—an audience sat rapt around the table, stare fixed on him, tense from all too near memories of the past. A collection of faces, determined and fearful and stolid. Perhaps they remembered another pair of blue eyes? Yes. He could see the memory in their faces, in the hope that made them listen, in the fact that they were silent instead of pointing out that he was nothing but a barman.

To his right, both standing, were the Chief Auror and Alastor Moody. His feelings about both were ambivalent; the latter had pried where he had no right to pry, and was making the situation worse by glaring at the witch who sat at the far end of the table, furthest from him when they had once been so close. Yet here he was, ardent in his support, filling in the gaps whenever his clumsy tongue refused to obey—a mind that could strategise and plan, a personality who should have led the Order. He had voiced the idea, but the magical eye had pierced him, had bored into his own non-magical pair as its owner disagreed.

The same problem as with Potter, as with everybody else! The cloaked, powerful figure to his right could also be depended upon for both a keen mind and experience, and seemed a little less blind in his support than blasted Mad-Eye (after all, he was another natural successor whom he was usurping) but _would still _stare stupidly into his eyes, as if a boy sat before his headmaster! They were all the same! From a distance they looked askance at the shabby barman; nearer to they were hypnotised, swept away by a glimpse of his irises! As if a man's eyes could suggest his abilities!

Merlin, he had found another reason to detest his brother—for the expectations he bred. As if the witch sitting so far away from him, whose warmth he had once captured in his arms and whose lips he had once kissed, was not enough—

Some buried part of him was still writhing in pain. The last time he had seen the physical reality of that thin face had been at the ball, and the last time he had focussed on those lips had been when they had mortally wounded him. He could still feel the ghost of her refusal, the impact of the words like a spear through his gut… Even as he had screamed at her he had known that he was broken, that he was going to go back to the prison she had broken him from and drink everything that was nearby…

Her eyes were the only pair not looking at him. Perhaps she found the sight of him as agonising as he found the sight of her. He would avoid speaking to her; he would tell Moody or Potter…

_Hate. Love. _There was no longer any difference—

A hand rested warmly on his. Rolanda, to his left, gave a small smile.

A smile that contained everything.

His voice grew stronger; without knowing, he had launched into a speech. Mad-Eye was giving a nod at every word, and the Chief Auror was struck, rigid, apparently impressed. Before him, the Order was silent and trusting, spying another phoenix, watching invisible, spreading wings. He was not sure of those wings, but it no longer mattered. Next to him was a woman who could take over a hundred years' of sorrow and unspoken wrath, sooth it away, and rise, flying, to meet it.

* * *

**A/N: Ugh! I seem to have lost all ability to pace. I'm sorry if it seems that things are happening too quickly (partly because I anticipate what's coming!) and for the lack of ADMM (the balance WILL be restored soon!). **


	31. A Circle

**A/N: ... Er. "She WHAT? She vanished for TWO YEARS and abandoned her wonderful, amazing, supportive reviewers?!" She did, and is VERY sorry. She returns to the world of fanfiction hoping to finish Him Again for the sake of those incredible people (Skite and Marielle particularly...) who have kept watching and waiting—and offers this strange hybrid chapter, started in 07 and finished in 09!**

__

Je ne craignais pas de mourir, mais de mourir sans etre illumine.

(I was not afraid to die, but to die without having been enlightened)

—Comte de Saint-Germain, La Tres Sainte Trinisophie

**

* * *

**

"Minerva, we do not have to do anything you don't want to."

She was naked, standing in front of his desk. The office was different—not in appearance, for in her time she had retained everything of His, when His name was unmentionable—in that the air held a different presence, one which overrode her own. Somehow she knew, without analysing the situation, or even looking at the date of the calendar on the wall, that she had never been Headmistress and never would have to be. There would always be a headmaster sat in the chair, twinkling eyes roving over her form.

"But I want to."

The handsome face in front of her split into a grin. Long fingers enticed her forwards.

The scene changed: they were in a bed which was a tomb, red satin sheets in sharp contrast to the cold white marble without. The sky above them was dark, speckled with stars like diamonds, centred around a nude, shameless moon. Her own nakedness had changed; it was no longer the stark presentation of the office, but both secret and glowing, luminance emphasised by shadow. His own body was almost melded to hers, a warmth which burned against the cool of the night—but still clothed, so that only a delicate stretch of fabric separated them. She thought that this was strange, and that it something to do with her, but could think no further, because Aberforth was suddenly standing over the tomb with his wand raised...

Now she was a memory, a presence of the pastand bleeding; the satin sheets had become a pool of her life, leaking away into the dead earth. Albus had turned into the cast-iron swastika which had been Grindelwalds Horcrux, and it was lying heavily on her chest, pulsing with hatred, forcing the blood out—

"Minerva, can you hear me? _Minerva!"_

An auburn beard was above her, its owner as leeched of blood as she was. She tried to speak, but the sound wouldnt come... Such a child...

_"You must tell me how this was done!"_

She was trying to tell him about the transfigured eagle with its cruel beak, but her voice emerged to tell something different, something which hadn't happened—

__

"Someone put a wand up me, Professor, someone put a wand—"

Minerva McGonagall awoke suddenly, gasping, the weight still on her chest and something red engulfing her vision—

Fawkes chirped and cocked his head as if concerned, his almost-human expression marred only by the parchment in his mouth. The morning was blazing all around her, an unseasonable sun grinning through the window, and the curtains were stirring with a calming whisper. Still shaken, she glared up at the phoenix.

"Do you usually land on peoples chests?"

Fawkes gave an odd, squawking cackle, like laughter. Shooting the bird the look she usually reserved for hung-over Seventh-Years, she ripped the parchment from his beak and sat up. The phoenix squawked again and vanished in a flash of flame. Heart still beating unreasonably fast, the Headmistress had to read the letter twice before she could make any sense of it.

__

If the Goddess could be ready at twelve, then she might find a temple waiting for her.

_Yours eternally,_

_Albus_

"That man."

She smiled, and then frowned. The word 'eternally' was indented deeply into the parchment, and was preceded by a blot, as though the writer had paused before continuing. Surely he didnt doubt...?

She lay back and tried to clear her mind. The dream was still washing over her, the image of a pool of blood seared onto her eyelids. The sigh came almost involuntarily.

She did not need Sybil Trelawney or any of her absurd books to interpret _that _dream. No great mental effort was needed to account for the presence of Aberforth, as the Order meeting had only been the day before, and had not passed without the predictable distress of sitting across from the man she had refused. Several times his voice had faltered as he looked at her, and she had kept her gaze solidly away, chest tight with awkwardness. They had not greeted each other, or indeed performed any other sign of official recognition that the other was there, even as the air seemed crowded with unspoken recrimination. The moment she had arrived had been the worst; the rest of the Order had become suddenly intent on discussing the weather, staring through her with fixed grins. 'Professor McGonagall' had had her hand shaken as though she was a fictional character, a wraith who had come to disturb them.

Well, she corrected herself, that wasnt _completely _true. Whilst Arthur had fumbled with his fingers and talked loudly about plugs, Poppy had embraced her with a secret, encouraging pat on the back. Whilst Molly had laughed for longer than was necessary, the Healer had carefully asked her how she was, and seen past the meaningless response. Whilst Harry had stared with the baffled expression of someone who had been victim to violence with a heavy object, the other witch had steered her away from Aberforth into another room. Most of all, whilst the rest of the Order were determinedly rapt on Aberforths speech, her best friend had held her hand under the table, fingers compact in trusting support.

Poppy had also, she remembered, kept nodding and smiling at Rolanda, and looking from her, to Minerva, to Aberforth, as if trying to communicate some secret. She had been too tense and worried to really pay attention, and she had not lingered after the meeting, nor arrived early.

Rolanda!

Her former friend had returned Poppy's smiles with a strained one of her own, and then directed a strange, frightened look at the Headmistress. She could not understand its meaning, and had simply avoided her eyes until she looked away. Aberforth alone was upsetting enough without Rolanda—though she had wondered why Rolanda was there... After all, Poppy's presence was because of Alastor, but... She shook her head; it didn't matter.

The rest of the dream was more disturbing, and also needed no spark of genius to interpret. No focus was needed to return an eight-year-old Minerva sobbing to her mother—

"Louisa... Louisa said..."

Her mother had never actually learnt what Louisa—now only the blurred memory of a blonde girl with pigtails—had said, as the younger Minerva had found it too alarming even to repeat.

"Wizards stick wands up witches to make babies... and it hurts _a lot."_

There had been more than that, of course. Louisa, the morbidly-obsessed daughter of a neighbour, had always been drawn to the grotesque, a natural tendency fed by a mother who told bizarre tales. When the child had overheard what she shouldnt, it had been an automatic response to fictionalise it, and illustrate her theory with ghastly pictures. The adult Minerva understood this, but the girl Minerva had taken it as gospel, and had suffered recurring nightmares involving wands and Louisa's scrawled stick-figures. The terror had only ended four years later, when her mother had gone through the Facts of Life more delicately. The nightmare fear had vanished along with Louisa, the latter through an epidemic.

Now she was alarmed by it again—not what had been said, but the context the fear of a child had emerged in, immediately after intimacy with a nonsensically clothed Albus. The whole thing had been wrong—why had she been naked in his office, and he robed? Why had the fantasy of the tomb-bed held the same inequality?

She was not frightened by the idea of a naked Albus—the very concept was absurd, the nervousness of a sheltered child instead of an experienced adult. No, the idea was an exciting one, one to anticipate.

_"Would you still love me even if I could not—even if we were not able to_—make love?"

The Headmistress sat up.

_That _was wrong too, ridiculous, childish—completely inexpressive of what she had felt. Albus's love was a sure thing, a ground she could stand on in a world of endless sky. Physical intimacy was one healthy dimension that would not compromise the emotions of either of them; too tightly were they bound together, too much had they shared... How she could doubt what she had seen in his mind? She snorted. Merlin knew what he thought of her, after saying something so ridiculous!

As for vocalising what _was _the issue, the words were hard to choose even in her own mind. Her relationships from before Albus, from before she was even Deputy Headmistress—pale, transitory shadows—had always either moved inevitably from the emotional to the physical without retention, or had been marred as soon as that dimension developed, focussed around unspoken problems for which she served as a receptacle. Yet she could not fear the same with Albus; their love was stronger, and he selfless rather than selfish. Logically, the worry that all could be ruined made no sense. She could not even tell why the thought had grown on her so recently, or why she had chosen to voice it shortly after Moody's appearance. Was it because Moody reminded her of Aberforth and a failed relationship with blue eyes? Or had the new war unsettled her, made their situation losable and therefore confrontational? Was everything she thought a side-stepping of the real issue?

Whatever it was, Minerva McGonagall was emphatically _not _a woman who found problems unconquerable.

With this idea in mind, she rose to begin selecting robes, still stinging from the concept of Albus thinking her childish. She drew out a green set with gold embroidery Too professor-like, too conservative. Back it went, as did a dozen other robes.

* * *

Midday came slowly. Her personal chambers became a cage in which she paced, glancing at the tapestry entrance every now and then. Recent meetings between them had always been arranged so that Albus entered her chambers whilst Disillusioned or under the invisibility cloak, so as to stop the portraits muttering about the amount of times they had been made to face the wall. She had pointed out that a mysteriously opening tapestry was even more suspicious, but he had argued that a movement could be dismissed as the result of the wind, whilst overturned portraits were more intrinsically secretive. The change irritated her, in that there was yet another room to be crossed whilst she waited.

The clock struck twelve. She moved towards the tapestry just as it flapped opento divulge apparent nothingness. Her lips curved upwards of their own accord as a chuckle sounded in the air.

"Albus Dumbledore! Come out from under that cloak at once!"

The chuckle grew louder. Sherbet lemon-scented breath blew suddenly over her ear. She turned around, but her assailant was still invisible. The laughter of relief, after so many days of tension, was welling up inside her. Something brushed her arm.

She turned around again, and suddenly a warm body was up against her—

—Gone again, with a chuckle. The Headmistress glared at thin air and shook her head.

"Albus, you are such a—"

A long finger caressed her jaw—

"—Child!"

Her breath hitched as the invisible hand stroked downwards, setting her skin tingling. Cloth and flesh mingled around her, touching, teasing, laughing. Lips pressed suddenly on her own just as unseen arms wrapped around her, reminding her of the dream—

Albus Dumbledore's head emerged in the air a foot away, blue eyes holding a mischievous twinkle.

"A little flustered, Headmistress?"

She drew herself up and arranged her face into an expression of mock-severity, trying to will the blood from her cheeks.

"A little immature, Mr Potter?"

Albus closed his eyes and winced, drawing the cloak off. "Touché, my dear."

Now that the teasing cloak was off, she could survey him properly. The auburn locks were even brighter than she recalled from their last meeting, rendered the essence of fire by the black over-robes he wore: fine silk traced over with a phoenix embroidered in gold. Under the over-robes were white ones, tied around with a golden beltthe overall effect was surreal, as if he was a figure from an oil painting. His face appeared smooth, a tad less lined around the eyes which swept down her, seeming to hold a strange tension—or perhaps she had imagined it.

"Have you had a little less Ageing Potion this time?"

"Oh, perhaps." One reddish eyebrow arched. "And may I say that the Goddess looks particularly beautiful today?"

"You may." She twisted one finger in the long beard. "And I thought the Goddess was going to be led to her temple?"

"Mhm."

Their mouths were together again, exploring. She deepened it deliberately, wanting to prove something unspeakable, something beyond what she could voice. Sucking on his lower lip, she moved her hands into his hair, just as his own dropped to her waist. What did the war or dark wizards matter, when the centre of the world was _now? _His hands were moving up to her back, massaging the tension away, whilst his own mysteriously remained...

He drew back, so that the sapphire filled her vision.

"I'm sorry about the last few days."

His voice was unexpectedly serious, even as his hands continued their work. She stilled and watched him, waiting as his face creased in anxiety.

"I did not intend for what we share to be buried under either another war or Severus. There is no point in defending what is beautiful, only to forget to cultivate that beauty. Forgive me."

Mentally, she rolled her eyes, crushing the small part of her that protested he was right. "Albus, dont be absurd. There's nothing to forgive. You've spent your entire life fighting dark wizards, and you can hardly be expected to sit back and ignore everything when people start being killed! What we share has to come second—"

"No," he said shortly, gaze piercing to x-ray intensity. "And I think you know I'm right in saying that I've neglected you."

"You've seen me every week except for when Harry kept you away from the school. As for Severus, you are doing what you believe, and nobody can ask for more than that."

The name fell unpleasantly off her tongue; they still disagreed, and it was a point of tension, the shadow of a tower. Most frustrating was her ability to understand both sides of it! _Of course _Albus would want to protect the boy he had loved, and _of course _she would loath the man who had killed him...

"My dear, rather than debating it with me, how about you let me have the opportunity to correct the balance?"

"This 'temple'?"

"Certainly."

For a second he seemed suppressed, biting back words, but the twinkle had returned, illuminating his entire face as he reached inside the black over-robe. After some fumbling, he produced a rock, holding it out to her like a piece of cake. Minerva raised her eyebrow.

"I'm unimpressed, Albus."

The half-moons flashed amusement. "A Portkey!"

As he pressed into her hands, the force of it took hold of her, latching behind her pelvis and dissolving the world into a kaleidoscopic whirl of colour, through which she and Albus sped, alone in a wind-borne dance. Sapphire stood out, reduced the other hues to nothing. The moment seemed to solidify; they were not moving, but standing rapt around a rock, both hands kept on it but gazes locked elsewhere, sharing a secret—

Her feet hit the ground, and the illusion was goneto give way to what at first seemed another.

They were standing on a hill overlooking a vast lake, a shimmering blue teardrop which held a mirror to the sky. Dark trees bowed down below the hill, encircling the lake and forming a guard of honour. A thin mist hung over the view like a window wet with condensation; the hill was an island above it, a step above the surreal world they were to descend into. Careful peering revealed another island at the centre of the lake, a pupil at the centre of a wise eye, crowned by a spreading oak. Something white sat in its shadows, something gleaming and sacred... She looked round at Albus, stunned.

He smiled wanly, and, without a word, began to descend into the mist. She took a step forward to follow him, and then heard it.

A melodious cry was going up around the hill, echoing down to the water. A song was beginning, a rapture of sweet, avian notes that reached in and squeezed the heart...

"Albus, what is—?"

There was no need to complete the question; she realised she had heard something of it before, but only one voice where now there were hundreds, all intent on a hymn of their own, yet weaving their sounds to make one glorious tapestry. Speechless, she followed him down the hill, feeling the mist bathe her face. The symphony was growing louder, piercing to the bone, intensifying until tears inexplicably filled her eyes. They were among the trees now, wet with dew, and looking up she glimpsed a long, golden tail feather...

"Minerva?"

The lake was before them: a strange, visual representation of what the song had produced. A small boat was gliding over the water without oars, pointing a crudely carved figurehead at them in silent invitation. She seized Albuss hand as he stepped in, wondering if he was feeling the same, made desperate by the eternal vocalisation around them. The blue eyes looked at her reassuringly, and she was stepping into the boat, the wood moving in a delicate sway.

He tapped the figurehead with his wand, and they moved off. His arms were around her, a cup around her inward swelling—a swelling of sadness and hope, a realisation of ignorance. The whole of life was there in that song, she thought, pressing her head into his shoulder, the whole of the world, an unending cycle of loving generations. Her logic was gone, swept away by a surrounding scream of grief and adoration, a fall from a tower and a proclamation of love, a little girl and her boy-professor... She hid her face and let the tears come.

There was no way of knowing how long she cried into him, or how long the boat moved across the lake. There was simply Albus, an enclosing warmth, an inexplicable strength in the midst of surrender. One hand massaged her back, trailing up and down her spine, as her mind played memories: the white nucleus of power rising from the trees as a German mage fell, a green serpent as another dark rose, a stern professor watching students go out into a recurring night, the sympathetic face of a counsellor, and sad sapphire...

...Sad sapphire, and a boy with the same eyes...

When she lifted her head up, he was looking past her towards the trees, hand still moving automatically. The lake was spread out around them, the distant shores swathed in mist, and the boat was still swaying, a gentle lilt in the collective voice, which rose suddenly to an aching, unbearable crescendo—

The trees spat fire.

No, not fire, but hundreds of pairs of wings, lifting up in formation—

A soaring column of phoenixes rose into the air, blinding and fiery against the blue, curling and dancing in a blazing arrow. In the lead was a familiar shape, a crested head which ducked proudly towards its master.

Her gasp of amazement finally left her, and Albus looked down, expression as if torn from something unpleasant. Confusion. One long finger traced her cheek, wiping away the tears, but her attention was on the arrowhead above, wonder holding her mesmerised, ignoring the mixed messages from the man. The arrow was shooting towards them, skimming low over the water in a flash of gold. A thousand wing-beats echoed across the lake, and suddenly the whisper of feathers was all around them, covering them in heat, wrapping them in the song—

Then they were past, soaring again upwards to give a final, triumphant cry. The arrow broke above the trees, dissolving into the mist. The spell was suddenly broken; she could speak.

"A-Albus—how and what—?"

His lips turned upwards, and he pressed a finger on hers. "In a moment. We're here."

The calmness of his action shook her: was he entirely unaffected by the phoenix song? A closer look made her regret the thought; his eyes were distant, one with the mist, and he was paler than usual, as if the blood had balled within him. The boat had come to a sudden halt, but neither of them got out for a few minutes, the silence after the music still ringing.

She tried again. "The phoenixes—why—?"

He shook his head, and leapt onto the shore like a deer. Wordlessly, he extended a hand, and helped her out onto the island that had been visible before. The gleaming, white something was now immediately obviousand it was a joke, it was absurd, for surely he had not _actually _meant...?

The mist had parted, sparing the island from its hypnotic blanket, to reveal tall columns rearing on top of marble steps, blindingly bright in the midday sun. The temple itself was illuminated in spite of the shade of the oak, revealing carved phoenixes, diving and rolling in marble air, stretched around pillars, gathered round nests, flying in formation over vast, white walls. An ancient, glowing table stood outside, covered with less than ancient crumbs which were being pecked at by creatures born in previous centuries. The oak above was weighted with phoenixes; brown eyes stared from all directions as the Headmistress took several, faltering steps along a short, overgrown path. Her eyes were drawn to the front of the temple's roof, where a larger phoenix than the rest spread its wings, carved beak open in a soundless call. Feeling for Albus's hand, she walked up the steps and inwards.

The room inside was small and darkened, reddish in the light of several candles. A scarlet loveseat reposed in a corner, next to a varnished wooden table with clawed feet. Sweet scent wafted from a magical incense-burner, and the floor was coated with soft, purple petals. The only thing which looked in line with the temple's function was the dusty altar at the back.

"The Goddess's temple!" Albus declared, with an unnecessary sweeping motion. "I hope you find it satisfactory."

Minerva gaped at him. Stupefied, she looked around the room again before back at the enigmatic, frustrating and endearing man beside her, who was grinning madly from ear to ear. Trembling slightly, she sank down on the loveseat, turning so that the light from outside formed an auburn halo around his head. The wild thought that he had somehow created the lake, the island and the temple all in one night forced her mouth to open.

"Did you do all this?"

Albus laughed. "Merlin no! All I have done is what you see in this room."

Numbly, she looked down at the petals. "Where are we?"

"Ireland. To be more specific, Amhran Loch, otherwise known as Myrrdin's Tear."

The information meant nothing. His grin and the tears she had shed at the song now seemed incongruous.

"About the phoenixes... and that song..."

Thin hands cupped her face and the sapphire was serious. "Forgive me, I should have warned you of that. I had forgotten how much it can affect one the first time."

"Why are they here? How did you find this place? And the temple—"

"One question at a time, my dear! Why they are here... I do not think humans can know that. I certainly don't pretend to know. I found this place because Fawkes showed me it; I doubt I would have discovered it otherwise. The Muggle villages nearby have old tales of the lake, but they have not been able to find it for generations. As for the temple I think wizards did once know of it and came here to worship, in the times before a phoenix was just a composite of spell and wand ingredients. And I'm afraid that's all I can guess."

"You've been here many times?"

He nodded, darkened face nostalgic. "Yes—ever since I was fifteen, when Fawkes first showed me. It became my haven during difficult times. I used to sit here and read or paint."

A twinge of alarm shuddered down her spine. "Are you sure it's appropriate for me to be here? It sounds to me as though people are invited here or not at all—Fawkes showed you, but I wasnt invited—"

"Yes you were," he said brightly, running his hand down her back to still the quiver. "There I was, sitting in the Gryffindor dormitory and out of ideas, when Fawkes suggested the idea to me. He transported me here and flew around the temple twice, and I've interpreted that to mean that we're both perfectly welcome. I didn't hear any squawks of protest on the way here, did you?"

The memory of the song and her tears made her look away. The plan of coming across as a mature, capable woman seemed to have gone awry.

"Albus," she began hesitantly. "About the crying—"

He drew her into his arms. Limp in his grasp, she felt his voice tickle her ear:

"Minerva, I did say I should have warned you. Nobody passes under that spell unaffected. I have some resistance to it as I've been here many times before, albeit before my r-rebirth."

She caught the stutter, and wondered at it, before mentally pushing it to one side. "Is it a spell, then?"

"More than, I would say. It possesses greater power than any spell we are able to cast."

_ ...Sapphire..._

_Wrong, _she thought. The spell they had cast together had simply strengthened.

The man beside her moved slightly, so that the light from outside was cut off. The candlelight seemed to cast the planes of his face into red intensity, reducing his eyes to blue sparks in black wells; he was suddenly nameless, the essence of a man.

A surge of affection made her turn to kiss his neck. His hands pressed her closer, and she gave a mischievous push, forcing him down onto the loveseat. The move from discussion to a simpler form of expression seemed to take him by surprise; he was limp beneath her, pinkness visible under the beard even in the dimness.

"I think that cloak of yours merits some revenge."

The half-moons misted. Heat was pulsing in her chest; the song had scoured the doubt away. Her tongue was moving down his neck, and her fingers were undoing the collar of his robes...

"My dear, you mustn't be cruel."

Her hands struggled with a clasp. "You shouldn't have been cruel to me, Albus."

The blue eyes were wide. "Ah, but I was not as forceful."

A pause, as her lips rested on his collarbone.

"They say that men mellow when they get older."

"Oh really?" One of his hands was on the clasp of her own robes, kneading tentatively.

Heart risen to her throat, she watched the sides of his robe fall, revealing a lean, pale chest. Attention barely on the hesitant movements at the top of her robes, she traced his sternum with a finger, following the movement of his sigh with a hand. As the clasp at her breast gave a click, her tongue echoed her finger, running down the centre of his body and eliciting a spasm. A hand suddenly lifted her head up, directing her gaze into that of the sapphire.

He would do nothing without her permission.

With another surge, she nodded and moved her tongue back up to his neck, before rolling to confront the dark ceiling of the temple. Albus's hands, luridly coloured in the candlelight, were drawing back her own robe, halting at the waist. She lay still as his touch moved upwards, beaming at the contrast between the staid professor and the woman in the temple, gloriously exposed in the half-light.

The hands massaged slowly, forcing the tension out. Tingles were sweeping through her skin, softening and warming. The grey-haired witch closed her eyes and surrendered herself to the sensation, and for an interminable amount of time they lay, undisturbed, male and female in a primal darkness. Outside, the song of the firebirds began again, entering the temple like a scent, weaving another eternity...

There was a sudden rumble. She gave a wild look around, expecting thunder, but the stomach beneath her gave another churn.

The enchantment was over; she was laughing, and the face next to hers was mildly embarrassed.

"It _is _past lunchtime, my dear!"

"And a wizard's stomach cannot wait?"

The laughter continued, making them human, individuals once more—relaxed after an unspoken intensity. Minerva rolled gently off him, and they fastened their robes in the darkness, still laughing, the confusion of the morning now seeming ridiculous and incomprehensible.

_But perhaps those doubts weren't the real ones, _came a whisper of pessimism.

The thought cut the laughter off. Albus's chuckle sounded alone for a few minutes, rising over the rustle of robes. Her skin was still burning, and the previous minutes seemed all too short, leaving invisible hands still caressing her body. She shivered suddenly, without knowing why, following him outside into the sunlight.

"Time for lunch, my dear!"

He was next to the crumb-speckled table, raising his hands into the air. He snapped his fingers, and the crumbs vanished, replaced by a white tablecloth and gold-edged cutlery.

"You've forgotten the food."

Something about her tone of voice made him look up, grin fading, but a smile restored the twinkle. He turned back to the table, fingers at the ready.

"I thought I'd consult the Goddess beforehand, though I've taken the liberty of ordering wine. I was thinking of lasagne, personally."

"The same."

He made a flourishing motion, and then sat in one of the ornate chairs. The wine and two glasses appeared as she joined him. For a few minutes she sat and watched him pour and absent-mindedly swat away the lake's mayflies, still wrapped in sensation. Now the words had to start, and eventually they would hold the Order meeting of the day before. _Not that._ A single phoenix flitted by the table, offering something other than dark wizards to talk about.

"So am I to assume that Fawkes approves of me then?"

A soft smile. "He and I are of one mind."

"You say he brought you here when you were fifteen. Is that when you first met him?"

"No. I was five years old, and in my family's garden at the time. He flew down and landed in my lap."

She expected him to elaborate, but he reached for the bottle and held it up exaggeratedly to the light.

"Are you detecting 'sensual dimensions of vanilla'? I'd say that they're rather overpowered by the berry, if there at all—"

"I would query whether vanilla could be sensual. You were saying about Fawkes? I hear that the bond a phoenix has—"

"Hm?" His brows had knotted, as though fighting off the same discomfort as he'd displayed in the boat.

"Are you all right?"

"I hear that the Ministry wish to rework the castle wards—"

"Albus!"

The words 'I'm fine' appeared on his lips. Minerva allowed herself a snort. He put down the bottle and nodded as though she had spoken. She braced herself; it had been foolish to think that twin spectres of Aberforth and the Order could be set aside.

"I had a dream."

The Headmistress felt her eyebrows rise towards her hair. "Isn't this more Sybil's province?"

Albus laughed. "And there was me expecting a Martin Luther King quip. He was a Muggle who... ah... yes. Perhaps not now. It was a dream which started me towards a discovery. I dreamt of meeting my older self reading a book under a tree. Nicolas Flamel's _The Last Quest."_

"...Yes?"

He gave a great sigh, as if hefting an unseen weight. "I seem to remember telling you about a possible relationship between the Transmutation Matrix, alchemy and ageing—and how the first two seem to involve putting particles beyond their natural point. You've seen my notes on how the three stages of transfiguration—Destruction, Revitalisation and Reassembly—correspond with the black, white and red stages of alchemy—"

"Albus, I have not even looked at alchemy in decades. I'm afraid you're going to have to explain as if to a First-Year."

"My apologies. Well to simplify, both physical and spiritual alchemy—for there are two types, originally linked—involve the three stages of Nigredo, Albedo and Rubedo: blackening, whitening and reddening. My father, who dabbled in alchemy quite a bit, named me for the second stage, oddly enough. Nigredo means destruction, Albedo means enlightenment and the union of opposites, and the Rubedo, the realisation of the self, ends with the Philosopher's Stone. Given those explanations, the link to the Matrix appears relatively obvious."

She nodded, making the connections. "True, but I would not have made it alone."

"Well, alchemy is hardly a mainstream branch of magic. Anyway, my studies of alchemy with regards to death, birth and ageing were mainly a distraction, just an area of idle fascination... until yesterday. Following the dream, I turned to Nicolas's book and then my notes—and the revelation hit me like one of Hagrid's Blast-Ended Skrewts. All my findings suggested that _death _is the equivalent point which particles in both transfiguration and physical alchemy must aspire past. All things ultimately aspire towards their own destruction—which is why the Reassembly stage of the Matrix is the hardest for an inexperienced student. A theoretical foot past that point is _birth._ The links between the human life cycle, the Matrix and alchemy were perfect... and bar the need of the last two for someone to set them in motion, all are ultimately about transfiguration! Are you following me, my dear?"

"Not quite, Albus."

"When you transfigure an object, you are either repeating or reversing the Matrix, either pushing or pulling it past that point of destruction. In spiritual alchemy the soul is pushed beyond that point... allowing rebirth..."

He had gone pale, white with a discovery that only now just hit her. A strange, half-formed hope; a young couple sitting at the same table—

"But... that would imply... that would imply that life is like the Matrix... you could reverse it..."

He rose abruptly, and paced, refusing to meet her gaze.

"Not quite. No transfiguration spell has ever brought back a soul, and only the Stone Harry destroyed isolated the ageing process and prevented its passage towards death."

A jolt like lightning went through her. The Headmistress found herself gripping the table. Was that what he was working towards— was he going to try—? All the intellectual rambling: did it offer an open door, a way out?

"The Philosopher's Stone, the physical one!"

Why had they not seen it before? In his research, how could he have not— ?

"You were able to study it—"

Back to her, he bowed his head. The iciness of guilt. Did he think her no better than Voldemort? A pleading note entered her voice.

"Not _forever..."_

Forever. The robed shoulders hunched.

"I do not know how to make it. Nicolas allowed me to study its workings, and that first suggested the connection between the Matrix and alchemy— for that was what its Elixir did to the body. It destroyed the cells temporarily, brought them together again and restored them. It was a kind of catalyst."

"I-If you know that much..."

"It took him seventy years. It was a lifetime's process."

_Time they did not have. _She closed her eyes. Whatever had taken flight during the previous seconds seemed to dash its wings on the rocks below. She buried the corpse, quickly, trying to focus.

"But your soul returned. Your was body was reborn, not just some cells."

He gave a shudder. "And that would suggest that I have achieved the spiritual Stone. Or else produced a Horcrux—"

_"No."_

An irrational wave of fury. How could he suggest it of himself? It had been for her to violate the moral boundaries, not him. The direction of the conversation now seemed cruel and unnecessary.

"Then I have achieved the Stone."

He stopped as he spoke; all the movement seemed to rush to his face in a flurry of expressions. The one which resolved itself to look at her made no sense— surely the Stone was a cause for triumph, not defeat?

"But why, Minerva? All I could find in Nicolas's book was a sentence about one of its conditions: love. The same force which saved Harry saved me. All I could find about spiritual alchemy was that the recognition of its presence constitutes a form of Albedo. In realising, so briefly as I did, that I loved you, I glimpsed something from beyond the compass of my life until then. I did not realise completely, however. I died halfway between Albedo, the recognition of my true opposite, my other self, and Rubedo, the full admission of it. Yet why me, and no one of many others who have had similar last-minute revelations?

"The answer was right before me. A phoenix." He spread his hands. "A creature that reincarnates, that demonstrated my findings before I had even begun my research. A _living Matrix, _a creature which can transfigure itself! In a rush, I gathered the ashes from Fawkes's last rebirth... Minerva, I analysed them... and then I analysed my own skin. Fawkes may have been a willing Horcrux for me at one point, but he need no longer be. We are the same—"

"Albus—"

"The phoenix was the precondition, but our love enabled it—"

"Albus, _what—"_

"Lily died for Harry--and he survived because the power of her love protected what was already alive—"

"What are you trying—"

"And so was I! Part of me was still there in Fawkes! Love called me back—or past—that point of death. And now..."

The sigh, even heavier than the first, prevented her from speaking. He sank back into the chair and looked up, sadly.

"That point has been removed for me. It's a circle, Minerva. I will be reborn, again and again and again..."

* * *

Disappointment. That was the first emotion he had acknowledged, even as something more profound curdled his stomach and sent him sinking to the floor. Did the spiritual Stone do so little more than the physical one? Could it be that there was no 'next great adventure'? That no one had reached higher than Voldemort, that the forces which he had unknowingly activated had their crescendo in nothing more than an endless repetition of life?

Harry's boyish face had swum before him, looking astonished.

_"But that means he and his wife will die, won't they?"_

_"To one as young as you, I'm sure it seems incredible—"_

How confident he had been back then...

_ "—But to Nicolas and Perenelle, it really is like going to bed after a very, very long day... You know, the Stone was really not such a wonderful thing. As much money and life as you could want! The two things most human beings would choose above all—the trouble is, humans do have a knack of choosing precisely those things which are worst for them."_

Crouched on the floor of an empty Gryffindor dormitory, still surrounded by the books he had spent hours pouring over, he felt like shaking the smug old man of yesteryears. He had believed himself above Voldemort, above the young Harry, even above Flamel. How had his understanding of death been any deeper than theirs, when the art hed studied for so long led down the same path?

"I didn't choose," he said aloud.

And the dormitory pressed back soundlessly, so that there had been no option but to let the thought, lurking beneath the others, rise with the enveloping quality of a shroud:

That this second chance would become a third, a fourth, a tenth, none of which would involve Minerva.

* * *

A breath of wind passed through the oak above, so the leaves whispered. Avian eyes regarded them; the odd crooning noise emerged from a feathered throat. It was as if, in the interval, the actors had remembered the audience.

Minerva turned her head away and looked towards the lake without seeing it. _So. _What she had thought to be merely the fear of being touched, some inexplicably querulous approach to intensity, had resolved itself in this. A tang of bitterness. He had not chosen—no, it was irrational to blame him, to _blame _at all. Fawkes, if anyone, had chosen. A magic which neither of them understood— and yet it felt like conspiracy: immortal eyes watching her age from every direction. Years of sorrow and whatever they expressed burnt up in a blink.

"My dear—"

"I'm sorry," she said, hearing it emerge in the tones of an attack.

"You're angry. Why is that?"

_Because of selfishness. _He sounded surprised, wrong-footed.

"I can give you everything, and it will not be enough," she replied, shortly.

A pause.

"Do you honestly think you will be just a fleeting episode for me?"

She looked: he was sat rigidly in his chair, hands gripping the arms as though in a ship at sea.

"I didn't want this—"

"I know. I know." That _will be. _"But... I have... one life. And everything is just once for me." Her voice shook. "Everything I feel, everything that happens... You will see me get old and die, and perhaps you will grieve as I did for you, but you can go on. There will always be a time ahead, no years to regret—"

"I didn't _want—"_

"—Nothing to be afraid of. You can go on and change what others cannot. You can forgive the man who killed you. I'm a mortal woman, fixed in time and place. My eternity is now and here, with you... and I am frightened..."

_And my feelings for you have been part of a grander plan. _

But that aside, was that not what she had always feared or wanted? In all relationships, a denial of reality, an eternal moment—

All the lines in his skin had deepened. A twisting sensation arrived in her chest, but she couldn't retract it. How could she grasp such loneliness? Why was there this insatiable urge to possess and understand? They would always be encroached upon, trying to traverse a terrain dotted by obstacles, whether it was the war or Snape or a Dark Lord or Aberforth— and then there was the looming mountain of their circumstances. _I am frightened. _She had never said those words before.

_Would you still love me even if I could not... _Had her earlier, childish words been a way of pretending that time was under her control?

"Minerva."

The half-moons were deposited on the table.

"Who would crave an eternity of being a-alone? If I could take all my time..."

"You can't," she said gently, reaching for one hand.

"I cannot, _cannot _lose you."

The other went to its owner's face.

From the branches of the oak-tree the phoenixes hummed, watching the mayflies dance over the water.

* * *

**A/N: ... Yes, I know. I was tempted to call this strange, introspective/info-dumpy chapter 'Incoherence'. This is partly why I disappeared. All I can say is that I was trying to lay foundations three quarters of the way up a spire! _Stayed tuned._ A half-promise. **


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